Stories  by 

,»_«_«»-__-_-_«.  —y-- 

American  Authors 


IV 


MISS    GRIEF. 

By  CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 

LOVE   IN   OLD    CLOATHES. 

By  H.C.BuNNER. 

TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 

By  N.P.WILLIS. 

FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

By  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 

AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

By  J.W.  DE  FOREST. 

LOST  IN  THE  FOG. 

By  NOAH  BROOKS. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


Hearst  Memorial  Library 
Case  No.  _»£__  shalf  No.  U^f 
Borivsr  &o Inventory  No.  .7.7  V  7 

"NOT  TQ  BE  REMOVED  FROM   LIBRARY^    • ~ 

WITHOUT  PROPER  AUTHORITY  "  t£i'>7\ 

PROPERTY  OF  HSARST  COUP 


Stories  by  American  Authors. 

IV. 


%*  The  Stories  in  this  volume  are  pro 
tected  by  copyright,  and  are  printed  here 
by  the  authority  of  the  authors  or  their 
representatives. 


Stories  by 
American  Authors 

IV. 


MISS     GRIEF. 

By  CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 

LOVE    IN    OLD    CLOATHES. 

By  H.  C.  BUNKER. 

TWO     BUCKETS    IN    A    WELL. 

By  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

By  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 

AN     INSPIRED    LOBBYIST. 

By  J.  W.  DE  FOREST. 

LOST    IN    THE    FOG. 

By  NOAH  BROOKS. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1884 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


MISS  GRIEF. 

BY  CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 


"  A  CONCEITED  FOOL  "  is  a  not  uncommon 
Jr\.  expression.  Now,  I  know  that  I  am  not  a 
fool,  but  I  also  know  that  I  am  conceited.  But, 
candidly,  can  it  be  helped  if  one  happens  to  be 
young,  well  and  strong,  passably  good-looking, 
with  some  money  that  one  has  inherited  and  more 
that  one  has  earned — in  all,  enough  to  make  life 
comfortable — and  if  upon  this  foundation  rests  also 
the  pleasant  superstructure  of  a  literary  success  ? 
The  success  is  deserved,  I  think  :  certainly  i't  was 
not  lightly  gained.  Yet  even  with  this  I  fully  ap 
preciate  its  rarity.  Thus,  I  find  myself  very  well 
entertained  in  life  :  I  have  all  I  wish  in  the  way  of 
society,  and  a  deep,  though  of  course  carefully 
concealed,  satisfaction  in  my  own  little  fame  ; 
which  fame  I  foster  by  a  gentle  system  of  non-in 
terference.  I  know  that  I  am  spoken  of  as  "  that 

***  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  May^  1880. 


6  MISS   GRIEF. 

quiet  young  fellow  who  writes  those  delightful 
little  studies  of  society,  you  know  ;"  and  I  live  up 
to  that  definition. 

A  year  ago  I  was  in  Rome,  and  enjoying  life 
particularly.  I  had  a  large  number  of  my  ac 
quaintances  there,  both  American  and  English, 
and  no  day  passed  without  its  invitation.  Of 
course  I  understood  it  :  it  is  seldom  that  you  find 
a  literary  man  who  is  good-tempered,  well-dressed, 
sufficiently  provided  with  money,  and  amiably 
obedient  to  all  the  rules  and  requirements  of 
"society."  'When  found,  make  a  note  of  it;" 
and  the  note  was  generally  an  invitation. 

One  evening,  upon  returning  to  my  lodgings,  my 
man  Simpson  informed  me  that  a  person  had  called 
in  the  afternoon,  and  upon  learning  that  I  was 
absent  had  left  not  a  card,  but  her  name — "  Miss 
Grief."  The  title  lingered— Miss  Grief!  "Grief 
has  not  so  far  visited  me  here,"  I  said  to  myself, 
dismissing  Simpson  and  seeking  my  little  balcony 
for  a  final  smoke,  "  and  she  shall  not  now.  I  shall 
take  care  to  be  '  not  at  home  '  to  her  if  she 
continues  to  call."  And  then  I  fell  to  thinking 
of  Isabel  Abercrombie,  in  whose  society  I  had 
spent  that  and  many  evenings  :  they  were  golden 
thoughts. 

The  next  day  there  was  an  excursion  ;  it  was 
late  when  I  reached  my  rooms,  and  again  Simpson 
informed  me  that  Miss  Grief  had  called. 

"  Is  she  coming  continuously  ?"  I  said,  half  to 
myself. 


MISS   GRIEF.  7 

"  Yes,  sir  :  she  mentioned  that  she  should  call 
again." 

"  Flow  does  she  look  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  a  lady,  but  not  so  prosperous  as  she 
was,  I  should  say,"  answered  Simpson,  discreetly. 

"Young?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"Alone?" 

"  A  maid  with  her,  sir." 

But  once  outside  in  my  little  high-up  balcony 
with  my  cigar,  I  again  forgot  Miss  Grief  and  what 
ever  she  might  represent.  Who  would  not  forget 
in  that  moonlight,  with  Isabel  Abercrombie's  face 
to  remember  ? 

The  stranger  came  a  third  time,  and  I  was  ab 
sent  ;  then  she  let  two  days  pass,  and  began  again. 
It  grew  to  be  a  regular  dialogue  between  Simp 
son  and  myself  when  I  came  in  at  night  :  "  Grief 
to-day  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  time  ?" 

11  Four,  sir." 

"  Happy  the  man,"  I  thought,  "  who  can  keep 
her  confined  to  a  particular  hour  !" 

But  I  should  not  have  treated  my  visitor  so 
cavalierly  if  I  had  not  felt  sure  that  she  was  eccen 
tric  and  unconventional — qualities  extremely  tire 
some  in  a  woman  no  longer  young  or  attractive.  If 
she  were  not  eccentric  she  would  not  have  persisted 
in  coming  to  my  door  day  after  day  in  this  silent 
way,  without  stating  her  errand,  leaving  a  note,  or 


8  MISS  GRIEF. 

presenting  her  credentials  in  any  shape.  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  she  had  something  to  sell— a  bit 
of  carving  or  some  intaglio  supposed  to  be  antique. 
It  was  known  that  I  had  a  fancy  for  oddities.  I 
said  to  myself,  "  She  has  read  or  heard  of  my 
'  Old  Gold  '  story,  or  else  '  The  Buried  God/  and 
she  thinks  me  an  idealizing  ignoramus  upon 
whom  she  can  impose.  Her  sepulchral  name  is  at 
least  not  Italian  ;  probably  she  is  a  sharp  country 
woman  of  mine,  turning,  by  means  of  the  present 
aesthetic  craze,  an  honest  penny  when  she  can." 

She  had  called  seven  times  during  a  period  of 
two  weeks  without  seeing  me,  when  one  day  I 
happened  to  be  at  home  in  the  afternoon,  owing  to 
a  pouring  rain  and  a  fit  of  doubt  concerning  Miss 
Abercrombie.  For  I  had  constructed  a  careful 
theory  of  that  young  lady's  characteristics  in  my 
own  mind,  and  she  had  lived  up  to  it  delightfully 
until  the  previous  evening,  when  with  one  word 
she  had  blown  it  to  atoms  and  taken  flight,  leaving 
me  standing,  as  it  were,  on  a  desolate  shore,  with 
nothing  but  a  handful  of  mistaken  inductions 
wherewith  to  console  myself.  I  do  not  know  a 
more  exasperating  frame  of  mind,  at  least  for  a 
constructor  of  theories.  I  could  not  write,  and  so 
I  took  up  a  French  novel  (I  model  myself  a  little 
on  Balzac).  I  had  been  turning  over  its  pages  but 
a  few  moments  when  Simpson  knocked,  and,  en 
tering  softly,  said,  with  just  a  shadow  of  a  smile  on 
his  well-trained  face,  "  Miss  Grief."  I  briefly 
consigned  Miss  Grief  to  all  the  Furies,  and  then,  as 


MISS  GRIEF.  9 

he  still  lingered — perhaps  not  knowing  where  they 
resided — I  asked  where  the  visitor  was. 

"  Outside,  sir — in  the  hall.  I  told  her  I  would 
see  if  you  were  at  home." 

"  She  must  be  unpleasantly  wet  if  she  had  no 
carriage." 

"  No  carriage,  sir  :  they  always  come  on  foot. 
I  think  she  is  a  little  damp,  sir." 

"  Well,  let  her  in  ;  but  I  don't  want  the  maid.  I 
may  as  well  see  her  now,  I  suppose,  and  end  the 
affair." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

I  did  not  put  down  my  book.  My  visitor  should 
have  a  hearing,  but  not  much  more  :  she  had  sacri 
ficed  her  womanly  claims  by  her  persistent  attacks 
upon  my  door.  Presently  Simpson  ushered  her 
in.  "  Miss  Grief,"  he  said,  and  then  went  out, 
closing  the  curtain  behind  him. 

A  woman — yes,  a  lady — but  shabby,  unattractive, 
and  more  than  middle-aged. 

I  rose,  bowed  slightly,  and  then  dropped  into 
my  chair  again,  still  keeping  the  book  in  my  hand. 
"Miss  Grief?"  I  said  interrogatively  as  I  indi 
cated  a  seat  with  my  eyebrows. 

"  Not  Grief,"  she  answewed — "  Crief  :  my  name 
is  Crief." 

She  sat  down,  and  I  saw  that  she  held  a  small  flat 
box. 

"  Not  carving,  then,"  I  thought — "  probably  old 
lace,  something  that  belonged  to  Tullia  orLucrezia 
Borgia."  But  as  she  did  not  speak  I  found  myself 


io  MISS  GRIEF. 

obliged  to  begin  :  "  You  have  been  here,  I  think, 
once  or  twice  before  ?" 

"  Seven  times  ;  this  is  the  eighth." 

A  silence. 

"  I  am  often  out  ;  indeed,  I  may  say  that  I  am 
never  in,"  I  remarked  carelessly. 

"  Yes  ;  you  have  many  friends." 

" — Who  will  perhaps  buy  old  lace,"  I  mentally 
added.  But  this  time  I  too  remained  silent  ;  why 
should  I  trouble  myself  to  draw  her  out  ?  She 
had  sought  me  ;  let  her  advance  her  idea,  what 
ever  it  was,  now  that  entrance  was  gained. 

But  Miss  Grief  (I  preferred  to  call  her  so)  did 
not  look  as  though  she  could  advance  anything  ; 
her  black  gown, damp  with  rain,  seemed  to  retreat 
fearfully  to  her  thin  self,  while  her  thin  self  re 
treated  as  far  as  possible  from  me,  from  the  chair, 
from  everything.  Her  eyes  were  cast  down  ;  an  old- 
fashioned  lace  veil  with  a  heavy  border  shaded  her 
face.  She  looked  at  the  floor,  and  I  looked  at  her. 

I  grew  a  little  impatient,  but  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  would  continue  silent  and  see  how  long  a 
time  she  would  consider  necessary  to  give  due 
effect  to  her  little  pantomime.  Comedy  ?  Or  was 
it  tragedy  ?  I  suppose  full  five  minutes  passed 
thus  in  our  double  silence  ;  and  that  is  a  long  time 
when  two  persons  are  sitting  opposite  each  other 
alone  in  a  small  still  room. 

At  last  my  visitor,  without  raising  her  eyes,  said 
slowly,  "  You  are  very  happy,  are  you  not,  with 
youth,  health,  friends,  riches,  fame  ?" 


MISS  GRIEF.  II 

It  was  a  singular  beginning.  Her  voice  was 
clear,  low,  and  very  sweet  as  she  thus  enumerated 
my  advantages  one  by  one  in  a  list.  I  was  at 
tracted  by  it,  but  repelled  by  her  words,  which 
seemed  to  me  flattery  both  dull  and  bold. 

"  Thanks,"  I  said,  "  for  your  kindness,  but  I 
fear  it  is  undeserved.  I  seldom  discuss  myself  even 
when  with  my  friends." 

"  I  am  your  friend,"  replied  Miss  Grief.  Then, 
after  a  moment,  she  added  slowly,  "  I  have  read 
every  word  you  have  written." 

I  curled  the  edges  of  my  book  indifferently  ;  I 
am  not  a  fop,  I  hope,  but — others  have  said  the 
same. 

"  What  is  more,  I  know  much  of  it  by  heart," 
continued  my  visitor.  "Waif:  I  will  show 
you  ;"  and  then,  without  pause,  she  began  to  re 
peat  something  of  mine  word  for  word,  just  as  I 
had  written  it.  On  she  went,  and  I — listened.  I 
intended  interrupting  her  after  a  moment,  but  I 
did  not,  because  she  was  reciting  so  well,  and  also 
because  I  felt  a  desire  gaining  upon  me  to  see 
what  she  would  make  of  a  certain  conversation 
which  I  knew  was  coming  —  a  conversation  be 
tween  two  of  my  characters  which  was,  to  say  the 
least,  sphinx-like,  and  somewhat  incandescent  as 
well.  What  won  me  a  little,  too,  was  the  fact  that 
the  scene  she  was  reciting  (it  was  hardly  more 
than  that,  though  called  a  story)  was  secretly  my 
favorite  among  all  the  sketches  from  my  pen  which 
a  gracious  public  has  received  with  favor.  I  never 


12  MISS  GRIEF. 

said  so,  but  it  was  ;  and  I  had  always  felt  a  won 
dering  annoyance  that  the  aforesaid  public,  while 
kindly  praising  beyond  their  worth  other  attempts 
of  mine,  had  never  noticed  the  higher  purpose  of 
this  little  shaft,  aimed  not  at  the  balconies  and 
lighted  windows  of  society,  but  straight  up  toward 
the  distant  stars.  So  she  went  on,  and  presently 
reached  the  conversation  :  my  two  people  began 
to  talk.  Sne  had  raised  her  eyes  now,  and  was 
looking  at  me  soberly  as  she  gave  the  words  of  the 
woman,  quiet,  gentle,  cold,  and  the  replies  of  the 
man,  bitter,  hot,  and  scathing.  Her  very  voice 
changed,  and  took,  though  always  sweetly,  the 
different  tones  required,  while  no  point  of  mean 
ing,  however  small,  no  breath  of  delicate  emphasis 
which  I  had  meant,  but  which  the  dull  types  could 
not  give,  escaped  an  appreciative  and  full,  almost 
overfull,  recognition  which  startled  me.  For  she 
had  understood  me — understood  me  almost  better 
than  I  had  understood  myself.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  while  I  had  labored  to  interpret,  partially,  a 
psychological  riddle,  she,  coming  after,  had  com- 
prehended  its  bearings  better  than  I  had,  though 
confining  herself  strictly  to  my  own  words  and 
emphasis.  The  scene  ended  (and  it  ended  rather 
suddenly),  she  dropped  her  eyes,  and  moved  her 
hand  nervously  to  and  fro  over  the  box  she  held  ; 
her  gloves  were  old  and  shabby,  her  hands 
small. 

I  was  secretly  much  surprised   by  what  I   had 
heard,  but  my  ill-humor  was  deep-seated  that  day, 


MISS  GRIEF.  13 

and  I  still  felt  sure,  besides,  that  the  box  contained 
something  which  I  was  expected  to  buy. 

"  You  recite  remarkably  well,"  I  said  carelessly, 
"  and  I  am  much  flattered  also  by  your  apprecia 
tion  of  my  attempt.  But  it  is  not,  I  presume,  to 
that  alone  that  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this  visit  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  still  looking  down,  "  it  is, 
for  if  you  had  not  written  that  scene  I  should  not 
have  sought  you.  Your  other  sketches  are  inte 
riors — exquisitely  painted  and  delicately  finished, 
but  of  small  scope.  This  is  a  sketch  in  a  few  bold, 
masterly  lines — work  of  entirely  different  spirit  and 
purpose." 

I  was  nettled  by  her  insight.  "  You  have  be 
stowed  so  much  of  your  kind  attention  upon  me 
that  I  feel  your  debtor,"  I  said,  conventionally. 
"  It  may  be  that  there  is  something  I  can  do  for 
you — connected,  possibly,  with  that  little  box  ?" 

It  was  impertinent,  but  it  was  true  ;  for  she  an 
swered,  "  Yes." 

I  smiled,  but  her  eyes  were  cast  down  and  she 
did  not  see  the  smile. 

"What  I  have  to  show  you  is  a  manuscript," 
she  said  after  a  pause  which  I  did  not  break  ;  "it 
is  a  drama.  I  thought  that  perhaps  you  would 
read  it." 

"  An  authoress  !  This  is  worse  than  old  lace," 
I  said  to  myself  in  dismay. — Then,  aloud,  "  My 
opinion  would  be  worth  nothing,  Miss  Grief." 

"  Not  in  a  business  way,  I  know.  But  it  might 
be  —  an  assistance  personally."  Her  voice  had 


14  MISS   GRIEF. 

sunk  to  a  whisper  ;  outside,  the  rain  was  pouring 
steadily  down.  She  was  a  very  depressing  object 
to  me  as  she  sat  there  with  her  box. 

"  I  hardly  think  I  have  the  time  at  present —  '  I 
began. 

She  had  raised  her  eyes  and  was  looking  at  me  ; 
then,  when  I  paused,  she  rose  and  came  suddenly 
toward  my  chair.  "  Yes,  you  will  read  it,"  she 
said  with  her  hand  on  my  arm — "  you  will  read  it. 
Look  at  this  room  ;  look  at  yourself  ;  look  at  all 
you  have.  Then  look  at  me,  and  have  pity." 

I  had  risen,  for  she  held  my  arm,  and  her  damp 
skirt  was  brushing  my  knees. 

Her  large  dark  eyes  looked  intently  into  mine  as 
she  went  on  ;  "I  have  no  shame  in  asking.  Why 
should  I  have  ?  It  is  my  last  endeavor  ;  but  a  calm 
and  well-considered  one.  If  you  refuse  I  shall  go 
away,  knowing  that  Fate  has  willed  it  so.  And  I 
shall  be  content." 

"  She  is  mad,"  I  thought.  But  she  did  not  look 
so,  and  she  had  spoken  quietly,  even  gently. — 
"  Sit  down,"  I  said,  moving  away  from  her.  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  been  magnetized  ;  but  it  was  only  the 
nearness  of  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  their  intensity. 
I  drew  forward  a  chair,  but  she  remained  standing. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said  in  the  same  sweet,  gentle 
tone,  "  unless  you  promise." 

"  Very  well,  I  promise  ;  only  sit  down." 

As  I  took  her  arm  to  lead  her  to  the  chair  I  per 
ceived  that  she  was  trembling,  but  her  face  con 
tinued  unmoved. 


MISS   GRIEF.  15 

"  You  do  not,  of  course,  wish  me  to  look  at  your 
manuscript  now  ?"  I  said,  temporizing  ;  "it  would 
be  much  better  to  leave  it.  Give  me  your  address, 
and  I  will  return  it  to  you  with  my  written 
opinion  ;  though,  I  repeat,  the  latter  will  be  of 
no  use  to  you.  It  is  the  opinion  of  an  editor  or 
publisher  that  you  want/' 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  please.  And  I  will  go  in  a 
moment,"  said  Miss  Grief,  pressing  her  palms  to 
gether,  as  if  trying  to  control  the  tremor  that  had 
seized  her  slight  frame. 

She  looked  so  pallid  that  I  thought  of  offering 
her  a  glass  of  wine  ;  then  I  remembered  that  if  I 
did  it  might  be  a  bait  to  bring  her  there  again,  and 
this  I  was  desirous  to  prevent.  She  rose  while  the 
thought  was  passing  through  my  mind.  Her 
pasteboard  box  lay  on  the  chair  she  had  first  occu 
pied  ;  she  took  it,  wrote  an  address  on  the  cover, 
laid  it  down,  and  then,  bowing  with  a  little  air 
of  formality,  drew  her  black  shawl  round  her 
shoulders  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

I  followed,  after  touching  the  bell.  "  You  will 
hear  from  me  by  letter,"  I  said. 

Simpson  opened  the  door,  and  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  maid,  who  was  waiting  in  the  ante 
room.  She  was  an  old  woman,  shorter  than  her 
mistress,  equally  thin,  and  dressed  like  her  in 
rusty  black.  As  the  door  opened  she  turned 
toward  it  a  pair  of  small,  dim  blue  eyes  with  a  look 
of  furtive  suspense.  Simpson  dropped  the  cur 
tain,  shutting  me  into  the  inner  room  ;  he  had  no 


1 6  MISS  GRIEF. 

intention  of  allowing  me  to  accompany  my  visitor 
further.  But  I  had  the  curiosity  to  go  to  a  bay- 
window  in  an  angle  from  whence  I  could  command 
the  street-door,  and  presently  I  saw  them  issue 
forth  in  the  rain  and  walk  away  side  by  side,  the 
mistress,  being  the  taller,  holding  the  umbrella  : 
probably  there  was  not  much  difference  in  rank 
between  persons  so  poor  and  forlorn  as  these. 

It  grew  dark.  I  was  invited  out  for  the  evening, 
and  I  knew  that  if  I  should  go  I  should  meet  Miss 
Abercrombie.  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  not  go. 
I  got  out  my  paper  for  writing,  I  made  my  prepa 
rations  for  a  quiet  evening  at  home  with  myself  ; 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  It  all  ended  slavishly  in  my 
going.  At  the  last  allowable  moment  I  presented 
myself,  and — as  a  punishment  for  my  vacillation, 
I  suppose — I  never  passed  a  more  disagreeable 
evening.  I  drove  homeward  in  a  murky  temper  ; 
it  was  foggy  without,  and  very  foggy  within. 
What  Isabel  really  was,  now  that  she  had  broken 
through  my  elaborately-built  theories,  I  was  not 
able  to  decide.  There  was,  to  tell  the  truth,  a 
certain  young  Englishman —  But  that  is  apart 
from  this  story. 

I  reached  home,  went  up  to  my  rooms,  and  had  a 
supper.  It  was  to  console  myself  ;  I  am  obliged  to 
console  myself  scientifically  once  in  a  while.  I  was 
walking  up  and  down  afterward,  smoking  and  feel 
ing  somewhat  better,  when  my  eye  fell  upon  the 
pasteboard  box.  I  took  it  up  ;  on  the  cover  was 
written  an  address  which  showed  that  my  visitor 


MISS  GRIEF.  17 

must  have  walked  a  long  distance  in  order  to  see 
me  :  "  A.  Grief."—"  A  Grief,"  I  thought  ;  "  and 
so  she  is.  I  positively  believe  she  has  brought  all 
this  trouble  upon  me  :  she  has  the  evil  eye."  I 
took  out  the  manuscript  and  looked  at  it.  It  was 
in  the  form  of  a  little  volume,  and  clearly  written  ; 
on  the  cover  was  the  word  "Armor"  in  German 
text,  and,  underneath,  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  a 
helmet,  breastplate,  and  shield. 

"  Grief  certainly  needs  armor,"  I  said  to  myself, 
sitting  down  by  the  table  and  turning  over  the 
pages.  "  I  may  as  well  look  over  the  thing  now  ;  I 
could  not  be  in  a  worse  mood."  And  then  I  began 
to  read. 

Early  the  next  morning  Simpson  took^a  note 
from  me  to  the  given  address,  returning  with  the 
following  reply  :  "  No  ;  I  prefer  to  come  to  you  ; 
at  four  ;  A.  GRIEF."  These  words,  with  their  three 
semicolons,  were  written  in  pencil  upon  a  piece  of 
coarse  printing-paper,  but  the  handwriting  was  as 
clear  and  delicate  as  that  of  the  manuscript  in  ink. 

"  What  sort  of  a  place  was  it,  Simpson  ?" 

"Very  poor,  sir,  but  I  did  not  go  all  the  way 
up.  The  elder  person  came  down,  sir,  took  the 
note,  and  requested  me  to  wait  where  I  was." 

"  You  had  no  chance,  then,  to  make  inquiries  ?" 
I  said,  knowing  full  well  that  he  had  emptied  the 
entire  neighborhood  of  any  information  it  might 
possess  concerning  these  two  lodgers. 

"  Well,  sir,  you  know  how  these  foreigners  will 
talk,  whether  one  wants  to  hear  or  not.  But  it 


1 8  MISS  GRIEF. 

seems  that  these  two  persons  have  been  there  but 
a  few  weeks  ;  they  live  alone,  and  are  uncommonly 
silent  and  reserved.  The  people  round  there  call 
them  something  that  signifies  '  the  Madames 
American,  thin  and  dumb/  ' 

At  four  the  "  Madames  American"  arrived  ;  it 
was  raining  again,  and  they  came  on  foot  under 
their  old  umbrella.  The  maid  waited  in  the  ante 
room,  and  Miss  Grief  was  ushered  into  my  bache 
lor's  parlor.  I  had  thought  that  I  should  meet  her 
with  great  deference  ;  but  she  looked  so  forlorn  that 
my  deference  changed  to  pity.  It  was  the  woman 
that  impressed  me  then,  more  than  the  writer — the 
fragile,  nerveless  body  more  than  the  inspired 
mind.  For  it  was  inspired  :  I  had  sat  up  half  the 
night  over  her  drama,  and  had  felt  thrilled  through 
and  through  more  than  once  by  its  earnestness, 
passion,  and  power. 

No  one  could  have  been  more  surprised  than  I 
was  to  find  myself  .thus  enthusiastic.  I  thought  I 
had  outgrown  that  sort  of  thing.  And  one  would 
have  supposed,  too  (I  myself  should  have  supposed 
so  the  day  before),  that  the  faults  of  the  drama, 
which  were  many  and  prominent,  would  have 
chilled  any  liking  I  might  have  felt,  I  being  a 
writer  myself,  and  therefore  critical  ;  for  writers 
are  as  apt  to  make  much  of  the  "  how,"  rather 
than  the  "  what,"  as  painters,  who,  it  is  well 
known,  prefer  an  exquisitely  rendered  representa 
tion  of  a  commonplace  theme  to  an  imperfectly  ex 
ecuted  picture  of  even  the  most  striking  subject. 


MISS  GRIEF.  19 

But  in  this  case,  on  the  contrary,  the  scattered 
rays  of  splendor  in  Miss  Grief's  drama  had  made 
me  forget  the  dark  spots,  which  were  numerous 
and  disfiguring  ;  or,  rather,  the  splendor  had  made 
rne  anxious  to  have  the  spots  removed.  And  this 
also  was  a  philanthropic  state  very  unusual  with 
me.  Regarding  unsuccessful  writers,  my  motto  had 
been  "  Vse  victis  !" 

My  visitor  took  a  seat  and  folded  her  hands  ;  I 
could  see,  in  spite  of  her  quiet  manner,  that  she 
was  in  breathless  suspense.  It  seemed  so  pitiful 
that  she  should  be  trembling  there  before  me— a 
woman  so  much  older  than  I  was,  a  woman  who 
possessed  the  divine  spark  of  genius,  which  I  was 
b)r  no  means  sure  (in  spite  of  my  success)  had  been 
granted  to  me — that  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  go  down 
on  my  knees  before  her,  and  entreat  her  to  take  her 
proper  place  of  supremacy  at  once.  But  there  ! 
one  does  not  go  down  on  one's  knees,  combus- 
tively,  as  it  were,  before  a  woman  over  fifty,  plain 
in  feature,  thin,  dejected,  and  ill-dressed.  I  con 
tented  myself  with  taking  her  hands  (in  their 
miserable  old  gloves)  in  mine,  while  I  said  cor 
dially,  "  Miss  Grief,  your  drama  seems  to  me  full 
of  original  power.  It  has  roused  my  enthusiasm  : 
I  sat  up  half  the  night  reading  it." 

The  hands  I  held  shook,  but  something  (perhaps 
a  shame  for  having  evaded  the  knees  business) 
made  me  tighten  my  hold  and  bestow  upon  her 
also  a  reassuring  smile.  She  looked  at  me  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  suddenly  and  noiselessly,  tears 


20  MISS  GRIEF. 

rose  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  I  dropped  her 
hands  and  retreated.  I  had  not  thought  her  tear 
ful  :  on  the  contrary,  her  voice  and  face  had 
seemed  rigidly  controlled.  But  now  here  she  was 
bending  herself  over  the  side  of  the  chair  with  her 
head  resting  on  her  arms,  not  sobbing  aloud,  but 
her  whole  frame  shaken  by  the  strength  of  her 
emotion.  I  rushed  for  a  glass  of  wine  ;  I  pressed 
her  to  take  it.  I  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do, 
but,  putting  myself  in  her  place,  I  decided  to 
praise  the  drama  ;  and  praise  it  I  did.  I  do  not 
know  when  I  have  used  so  many  adjectives.  She 
raised  her  head  and  began  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

'*  Do  take  the  wine,"  I  said,  interrupting  myself 
in  my  cataract  of  language. 

"  I  dare  not,"  she  answered  ;  then  added  hum 
bly,  "that  is,  unless  you  have  a  biscuit  here  or  a 
bit  of  bread." 

I  found  some  biscuit  ;  she  ate  two,  and  then 
slowly  drank  the  wine,  while  I  resumed  my  verbal 
Niagara.  Under  its  influence — and  that  of  the 
wine  too,  perhaps — she  began  to  show  new  life. 
It  was  not  that  she  looked  radiant — she  could  not 
—but  simply  that  she  looked  warm.  I  now  per 
ceived  what  had  been  the  principal  discomfort  of 
her  appearance  heretofore  :  it  was  that  she  had 
looked  all  the  time  as  if  suffering  from  cold. 

At  last  I  could  think  of  nothing  more  to  say, 
and  stopped.  I  really  admired  the  drama,  but  I 
thought  I  had  exerted  myself  sufficiently  as  an 
anti-hysteric,  and  that  adjectives  enough,  for  the 


MISS   GRIEF.  21 

present  at  least,  had  been  administered.  She  had 
put  down  her  empty  wine-glass,  and  was  resting 
her  hands  on  the  broad  cushioned  arms  of  her 
chair  with,  for  a  thin  person,  a  sort  of  expanded 
content. 

"  You  must  pardon  my  tears,"  she  said,  smil 
ing  ;  "  it  was  the  revulsion  of  feeling.  My  life  was 
at  a  low  ebb  :  if  your  sentence  had  been  against 
me  it  would  have  been  my  end." 

"  Your  end  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  end  of  my  life  ;  I  should  have  de 
stroyed  myself." 

"  Then  you  would  have  been  a  weak  as  well  as 
wicked  woman,"  I  said  in  a  tone  of  disgust.  I  do 
hate  sensationalism. 

"  Oh  no,  you  know  nothing  about  it.  I  should 
have  destroyed  only  this  poor  worn  tenement  of 
clay.  But  I  can  well  understand  howjw/  would 
look  upon  it.  Regarding  the  desirableness  of  life 
the  prince  and  the  beggar  may  have  different 
opinions. — We  will  say  no  more  of  it,  but  talk  of 
the  drama  instead."  As  she  spoke  the  word 
"  drama"  a  triumphant  brightness  came  into  her 
eyes. 

I  took  the  manuscript  from  a  drawer  and  sat 
down  beside  her.  "  I  suppose  you  know  that  there 
are  faults,"  I  said,  expecting  ready  acquiescence. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  there  were  any,"  was  her 
gentle  reply. 

Here  was  a  beginning  !  After  all  my  interest  in 
her— and,  I  may  say  under  the  circumstances,  my 


22  MISS  GRIEF. 

kindness — she  received  me  in  this  way  !  However, 
my  belief  in  her  genius  was  loo  sincere  to  be 
altered  by  her  whimsie"s  ;  so  I  persevered.  "  Lei 
us  go  over  it  together,"  I  said.  "  Shall  I  read  il 
to  you,  or  will  you  read  it  to  me  ?" 

"  I  will  not  read  it,  but  recite  it." 

"  That  will  never  do  ;  you  will  recite  it  so  wel 
that  we  shall  see  only  the  good  points,  and  whai 
we  have  to  concern  ourselves  with  now  is  the  bac 
ones." 

"  I  will  recite  it,"  she  repeated. 

"Now,  Miss  Crief,"  I  said  bluntly,  "for  wha 
purpose  did  you  come  to  me  ?  Certainly  no 
merely  to  recite  :  I  am  no  stage-manager.  Ir 
plain  English,  was  it  not  your  idea  that  I  mighl 
help  you  in  obtaining  a  publisher  ?" 

'  Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  looking  at  me  appre 
hensively,  all  her  old  manner  returning. 

I  followed  up  my  advantage,  opened  the  little 
paper  volume  and  began.  I  first  took  the  drarru 
line  by  line,  and  spoke  of  the  faults  of  expressior 
and  structure  ;  then  I  turned  back  and  touched 
upon  two  or  three  glaring  impossibilities  in  the 
plot.  ;<  Your  absorbed  interest  in  the  motive  o: 
the  whole  no  doubt  made  you  forget  these  blem 
ishes,"  I  said  apologetically. 

But,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  she  did  not  see 
the  blemishes — that  she  appreciated  nothing  I  had 
said,  comprehended  nothing.  Such  unaccountable 
obtuseness  puzzled  me.  I  began  again,  going  ovei 
the  whole  with  even  greater  minuteness  and  care, 


MISS  GRIEF.  23 

I  worked  hard  :  the  perspiration  stood  in  beads 
upon  my  forehead  as  I  struggled  with  her — what 
shall  I  call  it — obstinacy  ?  But  it  was  not  exactly 
obstinacy.  She  simply  could  not  see  the  faults  of 
her  own  work,  any  more  than  a  blind  man  can  see 
the  smoke  that  dims  a  patch  of  blue  sky.  When  I 
had  finished  my  task  the  second  time  she  still  re 
mained  as  gently  impassive  as  before.  I  leaned 
back  in  my  chair  exhausted,  and  looked  at  her. 

Even  then  she  did  not  seem  to  comprehend 
(whether  she  agreed  with  it  or  not)  what  I  must  be 
thinking.  "It  is  such  a  heaven  to  me  that  you 
like  it  !"  she  murmured  dreamily,  breaking  the 
silence.  Then,  with  more  animation,  "  And  now 
you  will  let  me  recite  it  ?" 

I  was  too  weary  to  oppose  her  ;  she  threw  aside 
her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and,  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  began. 

And  she  carried  me  along  with  her  :  all  the 
strong  passages  were  doubly  strong  when  spoken, 
and  the  faults,  which  seemed  nothing  to  her,  were 
made  by  her  earnestness  to  seem  nothing  to  me,  at 
least  for  that  moment.  When  it  was  ended  she 
stood  looking  at  me  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  like  it,  and  you  see  that  I  do. 
But  I  like  it  because  my  taste  is  peculiar.  To  me 
originality  and  force  are  everything — perhaps  be 
cause  I  have  them  not  to  any  marked  degree  my 
self — but  the  world  at  large  will  not  overlook  as  I 
do  your  absolutely  barbarous  shortcomings  on 
account  of  them.  Will  you  trust  me  to  go  over 


24  MISS  GRIEF. 

the  drama  and  correct  it  at  my  pleasure  ?"  This 
was  a  vast  deal  for  me  to  offer  ;  I  was  surprised  at 
myself. 

"  No,"  she  answered  softly,  still  smiling. 
"  There  shall  not  be  so  much  as  a  comma 
altered."  Then  she  sat  down  and  fell  into  a 
reverie  as  though  she  were  alone. 

"  Have    you    written    anything    else  ?"      I    said 
after   a   while,    when    I    had  become  tired   of   the 
silence. 
"Yes." 

"  Can  I  see  it  ?     Or  is  it  them  .?" 
"  It  is  them.     Yes,  you  can  see  all." 
"  I  will  call  upon  you  for  the  purpose." 
"  No,  you  must  not,"  she   said,  coming  back  to 
the  present  nervously.    "  I  prefer  to  come  to  you." 
At  this   moment   Simpson   entered   to  light  the 
room,  and  busied  himself  rather   longer  than  was 
necessary  over  the  task.     When  he  finally  went  out 
I  saw  that  my  visitor's  manner  had  sunk  into  its 
former  depression  :  the  presence  of    the    servant 
seemed  to  have  chilled  her. 

'  When  did  you  say  I  might  come  ?"  I  repeated, 
ignoring  her  refusal. 

"  I  did  not  say  it.     It  would  be  impossible." 
;<  Well,  then,  when  will  you  come  here  ?"     There 
was,  I  fear,  a  trace  of  fatigue  in  my  tone. 

"At  your  good    pleasure,    sir,"    she   answered 
humbly. 

My  chivalry  was  touched    by  this  :  after  all,  she 
was  a  woman.     "  Come  to-morrow,"  I  said.     "  By 


MISS  GRIEF.  25 

the  way,  come  and  dine  with  me  then  ;  why  not  ?" 
I  was  curious  to  see  what  she  would  reply. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  Yes,  I  will  come.  I  am 
forty-three  :  I  might  have  been  your  mother." 

This  was  not  quite  true,  as  lam  over  thirty  :  but 
I  look  young,  while  she —  Well,  I  had  thought 
her  over  fifty.  "  I  can  hardly  call  you  '  mother/ 
but  we  might  compromise  upon  '  aunt,'  "  I  said, 
laughing.  "Aunt  what?" 

"  My  name  is  Aaronna,"  she  gravely  answered. 
"  My  father  was  much  disappointed  that  I  was  not 
a  boy,  and  gave  me  as  nearly  as  possible  the  name 
he  had  prepared — Aaron." 

"  Then  come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  and 
bring  with  you  the  other  manuscripts,  Aaronna,"  I 
said,  amused  at  the  quaint  sound  of  the  name.  On 
the  whole,  I  did  not  like  "  aunt." 

"  I  will  come,"  she  answered. 

It  was  twilight  and  still  raining,  but  she  refused 
all  offers  of  escort  or  carriage,  departing  with  her 
maid,  as  she  had  come,  under  the  brown  umbrella. 
The  next  day  we  had  the  dinner.  Simpson  was 
astonished — and  more  than  astonished,  grieved — 
when  I  told  him  that  he  was  to  dine  with  the  maid  ; 
but  he  could  not  complain  in  words,  since  my  own 
guest,  the  mistress,  was  hardly  more  attractive. 
When  our  preparations  were  complete  I  could  not 
help  laughing  :  the  two  prim  little  tables,  one  in 
the  parlor  and  one  in  the  anteroom,  and  Simpson 
disapprovingly  going  back  and  forth  between 
them,  were  irresistible. 


26  MISS  GRIEF. 

I  greeted  my  guest  hilariously  when  she  arrived, 
and,  fortunately,  her  manner  was  not  quite  so 
depressed  as  usual  :  I  could  never  have  accorded 
myself  with  a  tearful  mood.  I  had  thought  that 
perhaps  she  would  make,  for  the  occasion,  some 
change  in  her  attire  ;  I  have  never  known  a  woman 
who  had  not  some  scrap  of  finery,  however  small, 
in  reserve  for  that  unexpected  occasion  of  which 
she  is  ever  dreaming.  But  no  :  Miss  Grief  wore 
the  same  black  gown,  unadorned  and  unaltered.  I 
was  glad  that  there  was  no  rain  that  day,  so  that 
the  skirt  did  not  at  least  look  so  damp  and  rheu 
matic. 

She  ate  quietly,  almost  furtively,  yet  with  a  good 
appetite,  and  she  did  not  refuse  the  wine.  Then, 
when  the  meal  was  over  and  Simpson  had  removed 
the  dishes,  I  asked  for  the  new  manuscripts.  She 
gave  me  an  old  green  copybook  filled  with  short 
poems,  and  a  prose  sketch  by  itself  ;  I  lit  a  cigar 
and  sat  down  at  my  desk  to  look  them  over. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  try  a  cigarette  ?"  I  suggested, 
more  for  amusement  than  anything  else,  for  there 
was  not  a  shade  of  Bohemianism  about  her  ;  her 
whole  appearance  was  puritanical. 

"  I  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  learning  to 
smoke." 

'  You  have  tried  ?"  I  said,  turning  round. 
'  Yes  :  Serena  and   I  tried,  but  we  did   not  suc 
ceed." 

"  Serena  is  your  maid  ?' ' 

"  She  lives  with  me." 


MISS   GRIEF.  27 

I  was  seized  with  inward  laughter,  and  began 
hastily  to  look  over  her  manuscripts  with  my  back 
toward  her,  so  that  she  might  not  see  it.  A  vision 
had  risen  before  me  of  those  two  forlorn  women, 
alone  in  their  room  with  locked  doors,  patiently 
trying  to  acquire  the  smoker's  art. 

But  my  attention  was  soon  absorbed  by  the 
papers  before  me.  Such  a  fantastic  collection  of 
words,  lines,  and  epithets  I  had  never  before  seen, 
or  even  in  dreams  imagined.  In  truth,  they  were 
like  the  work  of  dreams  :  they  were  Kubla  Khan, 
only  more  so.  Here  and  there  was  radiance  like 
the  flash  of  a  diamond,  but  each  poem,  almost  each 
verse  and  line,  was  marred  by  some  fault  or  lack 
which  seemed  wilful  perversity,  like  the  work  of  an 
evil  sprite.  It  was  like  a  case  of  jeweller's  wares 
set  before  you,  with  each  ring  unfinished,  each 
bracelet  too  large  or  too  small  for  its  purpose,  each 
breastpin  without  its  fastening,  each  necklace  pur 
posely  broken.  I  turned  the  pages,  marvelling. 
When  about  half  an  hour  had  passed,  and  I  was 
leaning  back  for  a  moment  to  light  another  cigar, 
I  glanced  toward  my  visitor.  She  was  behind  me, 
in  an  easy-chair  before  my  small  fire,  and  she  was 
— fast  asleep  !  In  the  relaxation  of  her  uncon 
sciousness  I  was  struck  anew  by  the  poverty  her 
appearance  expressed  ;  her  feet  were  visible,  and  I 
saw  the  miserable  worn  old  shoes  which  hitherto 
she  had  kept  concealed. 

After  looking  at  her  for  a  moment  I  returned  to 
my  task  and  took  up  the  prose  story  ;  in  prose  she 


28  MISS  GRIEF. 

must  be  more  reasonable.  She  was  less  fantastic 
perhaps,  but  hardly  more  reasonable.  The  story 
was  that  of  a  profligate  and  commonplace  man 
forced  by  two  of  his  friends,  in  order  not  to  break 
the  heart  of  a  dying  girl  who  loves  him,  to  live  up 
to  a  high  imaginary  ideal  of  himself  which  her 
pure  but  mistaken  mind  has  formed.  He  has  a 
handsome  face  and  sweet  voice,  and  repeats  what 
they  tell  him.  Her  long,  slow  decline  and  happy 
death,  and  his  own  inward  ennui  and  profound 
weariness  of  the  role  he  has  to  play,  made  the  vivid 
points  of  the  story.  So  far,  well  enough,  but  here 
was  the  trouble  :  through  the  whole  narrative 
moved  another  character,  a  physician  of  tender 
heart  and  exquisite  mercy,  who  practised  murder 
as  a  fine  art,  and  was  regarded  (by  the  author)  as 
a  second  Messiah  !  This  was  monstrous.  I  read 
it  through  twice,  and  threw  it  down  ;  then, 
fatigued,  I  turned  round  and  leaned  back,  waiting 
for  her  to  wake.  I  could  see  her  profile  against  the 
dark  hue  of  the  easy-chair. 

Presently  she  seemed  to  feel  my  gaze,  for  she 
stirred,  then  opened  her  eyes.  "  I  have  been 
asleep,"  she  said,  rising  hurriedly. 

"  No  harm  in  that,  Aaronna. " 

But  she  was  deeply  embarrassed  and  troubled, 
much  more  so  than  the  occasion  required  ;  so  much 
so,  indeed,  that  I  turned  the  conversation  back  upon 
the  manuscripts  as  a  diversion.  "  I  cannot  stand 
that  doctor  of  yours,"  I  said,  indicating  the  prose 
story  ;  "  no  one  would.  You  must  cut  him  out." 


MISS  GRIEF.  29 

Her  self-possession  returned  as  if  by  magic. 
"  Certainly  not,"  she  answered  haughtily. 

"  Oh,  if  you  do  not  care —  I  had  labored  under 
the  impression  that  you  were  anxious  these  things 
should  find  a  purchaser." 

"  I  am,  I  am,"  she  said,  her  manner  changing  to 
deep  humility  with  wonderful  rapidity.  With  such 
alternations  of  feeling  as  this  sweeping  over  her 
like  great  waves,  no  wonder  she  was  old  before  her 
time. 

'  Then  you  must  take  out  that  doctor." 

"  I  am  willing,  but  do  not  know  how,"  she 
answered,  pressing  her  hands  together  helplessly. 
"  In  my  mind  he  belongs  to  the  story  so  closely 
that  he  cannot  be  separated  from  it." 

Here  Simpson  entered,  bringing  a  note  for  me  : 
it  was  a  line  from  Mrs.  Abercrombie  inviting  me 
for  that  evening — an  unexpected  gathering,  and 
therefore  likely  to  be  all  the  more  agreeable.  My 
heart  bounded1  in  spite  of  me  ;  I  forgot  Miss  Grief 
and  her  manuscripts  for  the  moment  as  completely 
as  though  they  had  never  existed.  But,  bodily, 
being  still  in  the  same  room  with  her,  her  speech 
brought  me  back  to  the  present. 

'  You  have  had  good  news  ?"   she  said. 

"  Oh  no,  nothing  especial — merely  an  invita 
tion." 

"But  good  news  also,"  she  repeated.  "And 
now,  as  for  me,  I  must  go." 

Not  supposing  that  she  would  stay  much  later  in 
any  case,  I  had  that  morning  ordered  a  carriage  to 


30  MISS  GRIEF. 

come  for  her  at  about  that  hour.  I  told  her  this. 
She  made  no  reply  beyond  putting  on  her  bonnet 
and  shawl. 

"  You  will  hear  from  me  soon,"  I  said  ;  "  I  shall 
do  all  I  can  for  you." 

She  had  reached  the  door,  but  before  opening  it 
she  stopped,  turned  and  extended  her  hand. 
"  You  are  good,"  she  said  : '"  I  give  you  thanks. 
Do  not  think  me  ungrateful  or  envious.  It  is  only 
that  you  are  young,  and  I  am  so — so  old."  Then 
she  opened  the  door  and  passed  through  the  ante 
room  without  pause,  her  maid  accompanying  her 
and  Simpson  with  gladness  lighting  the  way. 
They  were  gone.  I  dressed  hastily  and  went  out 
— to  continue  my  studies  in  psychology. 

Time  passed  ;  I  was  busy,  amused  and  perhaps 
a  little  excited  (sometimes  psychology  is  excit 
ing).  But,  though  much  occupied  with  my  own 
affairs,  I  did  not  altogether  neglect  my  self-imposed 
task  regarding  Miss  Grief.  I  began  by  sending 
her  prose  story  to  a  friend,  the  editor  of  a  monthly 
magazine,  with  a  letter  making  a  strong  plea  for 
its  admittance.  It  should  have  a  chance  first  on  its 
own  merits.  Then  I  forwarded  the  drama  to  a 
publisher,  also  an  acquaintance,  a  man  with  a  taste 
for  phantasms  and  a  soul  above  mere  common 
popularity,  as  his  own  coffers  knew  to  their  cost. 
This  done,  I  waited  with  conscience  clear. 

Four  weeks  passed.  During  this  waiting  period 
I  heard  nothing  from  Miss  Grief.  At  last  one 
morning  came  a  letter  from  my  editor.  "  The 


MISS  GRIEF.  31 

story  has  force,  but  I  cannot  stand  that  doctor," 
he  wrote.  "  Let  her  cut  him  out,  and  I  might 
print  it."  Just  what  I  myself  had  said.  The 
package  lay  there  on  my  table,  travel-worn  and 
grimed  ;  a  returned  manuscript  is,  I  think,  the 
most  melancholy  object  on  earth.  I  decided  to 
wait,  before  writing  to  Aaronna,  until  the  second 
letter  was  received.  A  week  later  it  came. 
"  Armor"  was  declined.  The  publisher  had 
been  "impressed"  by  the  power  displayed  in 
certain  passages,  but  the  "  impossibilities  of  the 
plot"  rendered  it  "  unavailable  for  publication" 
— in  fact,  would  "  bury  it  in  ridicule"  if  brought 
before  the  public,  a  public  "  lamentably"  fond  of 
amusement,  "  seeking  it,  undaunted,  even  in  the 
cannon's  mouth."  I  doubt  if  he  knew  himself 
what  he  meant.  But  one  thing,  at  any  rate,  was 
clear  :  "  Armor"  was  declined. 

Now,  I  am,  as  I  have  remarked  before,  a  little 
obstinate.  I  was  determined  that  Miss  Grief's 
work  should  be  received.  I  would  alter  and  im 
prove  it  myself,  without  letting  her  know  :  the 
end  justified  the  means.  Surely  the  sieve  of  my 
own  good  taste,  whose  mesh  had  been  pronounced 
so  fine  and  delicate,  would  serve  for  two.  I  began  ; 
and  utterly  failed. 

I  set  to  work  first  upon  "  Armor."  I  amended, 
altered,  left  out,  put  in,  pieced,  condensed, 
lengthened  ;  I  did  my  best,  and  all  to  no  avail.  I 
could  not  succeed  in  completing  anything  that 
satisfied  me,  or  that  approached,  in  truth,  Miss 


32  MISS  GRIEF. 

Grief's  own  work  just  as  it  stood.  I  suppose  I 
went  over  that  manuscript  twenty  times  :  I  covered 
sheets  of  paper  with  my  copies.  But  the  obstinate 
drama  refused  to  be  corrected  ;  as  it  was  it  must 
stand  or  fall. 

Wearied  and  annoyed,  I  threw  it  aside  and  took 
up  the  prose  story  :  that  would  be  easier.  But, 
to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  that  apparently  gentle 
"  doctor"  would  not  out :  he  was  so  closely  inter 
woven  with  every  part  of  the  tale  that  to  take  him 
out  was  like  taking  out  one  especial  figure  in  a 
carpet  :  that  is,  impossible,  unless  you  unravel  the 
whole.  At  last  I  did  unravel  the  whole,  and  then 
the  story  was  no  longer  good,  or  Aaronna's  :  it 
was  weak,  and  mine.  All  this  took  time,  for  of 
course  I  had  much  to  do  in  connection  with  my 
own  life  and  tasks.  But,  though  slowly  and  at 
my  leisure,  I  really  did  try  my  best  as  regarded 
Miss  Grief,  and  without  success.  I  was  forced  at 
last  to  make  up  my  mind  that  either  my  own 
powers  were  not  equal  to  the  task,  or  else  that  her 
perversities  were  as  essential  a  part  of  her  work  as 
her  inspirations,  and  not  to  be  separated  from  it. 
Once  during  this  period  I  showed  two  of  the  short 
poems  to  Isabel,  withholding  of  course  the  writer's 
name.  "  They  were  written  by  a  woman,"  I 
explained. 

"  Her  mind  must  have  been  disordered,  poor 
thing  !"  Isabel  said  in  her  gentle  way  when  she 
returned  them  —  "at  least,  judging  by  these. 
They  are  hopelessly  mixed  and  vague." 


MISS  GRIEF.  33 

Now,  they  were  not  vague  so  much  as  vast.  But 
I  knew  that  I  could  not  make  Isabel  compre 
hend  it,  and  (so  complex  a  creature  is  man)  I  do 
not  know  that  I  wanted  her  to  comprehend  it. 
These  were  the  only  ones  in  the  whole  collection 
that  I  would  have  shown  her,  and  I  was  rather  glad 
that  she  did  not  like  even  these.  Not  that  poor 
Aaronna's  poems  were  evil  :  they  were  simply 
unrestrained,  large,  vast,  like  the  skies  or  the 
wind.  Isabel  was  bounded  on  all  sides,  like  a 
violet  in  a  garden-bed.  And  I  liked  her  so. 

One  afternoon,  about  the  time  when  I  was  be 
ginning  to  see  that  I  could  not  "  improve"  Miss 
Grief,  I  came  upon  the  maid.  I  was  driving,  and 
she  had  stopped  on  the  crossing  to  let  the  carriage 
pass.  I  recognized  her  at  a  glance  (by  her  general 
forlornness),  and  called  to  the  driver  to  stop  : 
"  How  is  Miss  Grief  ?"  I  said.  "  I  have  been  in 
tending  to  write  to  her  for  some  time." 

"  And  your  note,  when  it  comes,"  answered  the 
old  woman  on  the  crosswalk  fiercely,  "  she  shall 
not  see/' 

"  What?" 

"  I  say  she  shall  not  see  it.  Your  patronizing 
face  shows  that  you  have  no  good  news,  and  you 
shall  not  rack  and  stab  her  any  more  on  this  earth, 
please  God,  while  I  have  authority." 

"  Who  has  racked  or  stabbed  her,  Serena  ?" 

"  Serena,  indeed  !  Rubbish  !  I'm  no  Serena  : 
I'm  her  aunt.  And  as  to  who  has  racked  and 
stabbed  her,  I  say  you,  you — YOU  literary  men  !" 


34  MISS  GRIEF, 

She  had  put  her  old  head  inside  my  carriage,  and 
flung  out  these  words  at  me  in  a  shrill,  menacing 
tone.  "  But  she  shall  die  in  peace  in  spite  of 
you,"  she  continued.  ;'  Vampires  !  you  take  her 
ideas  and  fatten  on  them,  and  leave  her  to  starve. 
You  know  you  do — you  who  have  had  her  poor 
manuscripts  these  months  and  months  !" 

"  Is  she  ill  ?"  I  asked  in  real  concern,  gathering 
that  much  at  least  from  the  incoherent  tirade. 

"  She  is  dying,"  answered  the  desolate  old  creat 
ure,  her  voice  softening  and  her  dim  eyes  filling 
with  tears. 

"  Oh,  I  trust  not.  Perhaps  something  can  be 
done.  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"  In  all  ways  if  you  would,"  she  said,  breaking 
down  and  beginning  to  sob  weakly,  with  her  head 
resting  on  the  sill  of  the  carriage-window.  "  Oh, 
what  have  we  not  been  through  together,  we  two  ! 
Piece  by  piece  I  have  sold  all." 

I  am  good-hearted  enough,  but  I  do  not  like  to 
have  old  women  weeping  across  my  carriage-door. 
I  suggested,  therefore,  that  she  should  come  inside 
and  let  me  take  her  home.  Her  shabby  old  skirt 
was  soon  beside  me,  and,  following  her  directions, 
the  driver  turned  toward  one  of  the  most  wretched 
quarters  of  the  city,  the  abode  of  poverty,  crowded 
and  unclean.  Here,  in  a  large  bare  chamber  up 
many  flights  of  stairs,  I  found  Miss  Grief. 

As  I  entered  I  was  startled  :  I  thought  she  was 
dead.  There  seemed  no  life  present  until  she 
opened  her  eyes,  and  even  then  they  rested  upon 


MISS  GRIEF.  35 

us  vaguely,  as  though  she  did  not  know  who  we 
were.  But  as  I  approached  a  light  came  into 
them  :  she  recognized  me,  and  this  sudden  revi 
vification,  this  return  of  the  soul  to  the  almost 
deserted  bod,  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  I 
ever  saw.  "  You  have  good  news  of  the  drama  ?" 
she  whispered  as  I  bent  over  her  :  "  tell  me.  I 
know  you  have  good  news." 

What  was  I  to  answer  ?  Pray,  what  would  you 
have  answered,  puritan  ? 

"  Yes,  I  have  good  news,  Aaronna,"  I  said. 
"  The  drama  will  appear."  (And  who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  it  will  in  some  other  world.) 

She  smiled,  and  her  now  brilliant  eyes  did  not 
leave  my  face. 

"  He  knows  I'm  your  aunt  :  I  told  him,"  said 
the  old  woman,  coming  to  the  bedside. 

"  Did  you  ?"  whispered  Miss  Grief,  still  gazing 
at  me  with  a  smile.  "  Then  please,  dear  Aunt 
Martha,  give  me  something  to  eat." 

Aunt  Martha  hurried  across  the  room,  and  I  fol 
lowed  her.  "  It's  the  first  time  she's  asked  for 
food  in  weeks/'  she  said  in  a  husky  tone. 

She  opened  a  cupboard-door  vaguely,  but  I  could 
see  nothing  within.  "What  have  you  for  her?" 
I  asked  with  some  impatience,  though  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Please  God,  nothing  !"  answered  the  poor  old 
woman,  hiding  her  reply  and  her  tears  behind  the 
broad  cupboard-dcor.  "  I  was  going  out  to  get  a 
little  something  when  I  met  you." 


36  MISS  GRIEF. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  is  it  money  you  need  ?  Here, 
take  this  and  send  ;  or  go  yourself  in  the  carriage 
waiting  below." 

She  hurried  out  breathless,  and  I  went  back  to  the 
bedside,  much  disturbed  by  what  I  had  seen  and 
heard.  But  Miss  Grief's  eyes  were  full  of  life,  and 
as  I  sat  down  beside  her  she  whispered  earnestly, 
"  Tell  me." 

And  I  did  tell  her — a  romance  invented  for  the 
occasion.  I  venture  to  say  that  none  of  my  pub 
lished  sketches  could  compare  with  it.  As  for  the 
lie  involved,  it  will  stand  among  my  few  good 
deeds,  I  know,  at  the  judgment-bar. 

And  she  was  satisfied.  "  I  have  never  known 
what  it  was,"  she  whispered,  "  to  be  fully  happy 
until  now."  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  when  the 
lids  fell  I  again  thought  that  she  had  passed  away. 
But  no,  there  was  still  pulsation  in  her  small,  thin 
wrist.  As  she  perceived  my  touch  she  smiled. 
"  Yes,  I  am  happy,"  she  said  again,  though  with 
out  audible  sound. 

The  old  aunt  returned  ;  food  was  prepared,  and 
she  took  some.  I  myself  went  out  after  wine  that 
should  be  rich  and  pure.  She  rallied  a  little,  but 
I  did  not  leave  her  :  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  me  and 
compelled- me  to  stay,  or  rather  my  conscience 
compelled  me.  It  was  a  damp  night,  and  I  had  a 
little  fire  made.  The  wine,  fruit,  flowers,  and 
candles  I  had  ordered  made  the  bare  place  for  the 
time  being  bright  and  fragrant.  Aunt  Martha 
dozed  in  her  chair  from  sheer  fatigue — she  had 


MTSS  GRIEF.  37 

watched  many  nights — but  Miss  Grief  was  awake, 
and  I  sat  beside  her. 

"  I  make  you  my  executor,"  she  murmured,  "  as 
to  the  drama.  But  my  other  manuscripts  place, 
when  I  am  gone,  under  my  head,  and  let  them  be 
buried  with  me.  They  are  not  many — those  you 
have  and  these.  See  !" 

I  followed  her  gesture,  and  saw  under  her  pil 
lows  the  edges  of  two  more  copybooks  like  the  one 
I    had.      "Do    not   look   at    them— my   poor  dead 
children  !"  she  said  tenderly.     "  Let  them  depart 
with  me — unread,  as  I  have  been." 

Later  she  whispered,  "  Did  you  wonder  why  I 
came  to  you  ?  It  was  the  contrast.  You  were 
young — strong — rich — praised — loved — successful  : 
all  that  I  was  not.  I  wanted  to  look  at  you — and 
imagine  how  it  would  feel.  You  had  success — but 
I  had  the  greater  power.  Tell  me,  did  I  not  have 
it?" 

'  Yes,  Aaronna." 

II  It  is  all  in  the  past  now.      But  I  am  satisfied." 
After  another  pause  she  said  with  a  faint  smile, 

"  Do  you  remember  when  I  fell  asleep  in  your 
parlor  ?  It  was  the  good  and  rich  food.  It  was  so 
long  since  I  had  had  food  like  that  !" 

I  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  conscience-stricken, 
but  now  she  hardly  seemed  to  perceive  my  touch. 
"And  the  smoking?"  she  whispered.  "Do  you 
remember  how  you  laughed  ?  I  saw  it.  But  I  had 
heard  that  smoking  soothed — that  one  was  no 
longer  tired  and  hungry — with  a  cigar." 


38  MISS  GRIEF. 

In  little  whispers  of  this  sort,  separated  by  long 
rests  and  pauses,  the  night  passed.  Once  she 
asked  if  her  aunt  was  asleep,  and  when  I  answered 
in  the  affirmative  she  said,  "  Help  her  to  return 
home — to  America  :  the  drama  will  pay  for  it.  I 
ought  never  to  have  brought  her  away." 

I  promised,  and  she  resumed  her  bright-eyed 
silence. 

I  think  she  did  not  speak  again.  Toward  morn 
ing  the  change  came,  and  soon  after  sunrise,  with 
her  old  aunt  kneeling  by  her  side,  she  passed 
away. 

All  was  arranged  as  she  had  wished.  Her  manu 
scripts,  covered  with  violets,  formed  her  pillow. 
No  one  followed  her  to  the  grave  save  her  aunt 
and  myself  ;  I  thought  she  would  prefer  it  so. 
Her  name  was  not  "  Crief, "  after  all,  but  "  Mon- 
crief  ;"  I  saw  it  written  out  by  Aunt  Martha  for 
the  coffin-plate,  as  follows  :  "  Aaronna  Moncrief, 
aged  forty-three  years,  two  months,  and  eight 
days.*" 

I  never  knew  more  of  her  history  than  is  written 
here.  If  there  was  more  that  I  might  have  learned, 
it  remained  unlearned,  for  I  did  not  ask. 

And  the  drama  ?  I  keep  it  here  in  this  locked 
case.  I  could  have  had  it  published  at  my  own  ex 
pense  ;  but  I  think  that'  now  she  knows  its  faults 
herself,  perhaps,  and  would  not  like  it. 

I  keep  it ;  and,  once  in  a  while,  I  read  it  over — not 
as  a  memento  mori  exactly,  but  rather  as  a  memento 
of  my  own  good  fortune,  for  which  I  should  con- 


MISS  GRIEF.  39 

tinually  give  thanks.  The  want  of  one  grain  made 
all  her  work  void,  and  that  one  grain  was  given  to 
me.  She,  with  the  greater  power,  failed — I,  with 
the  less,  succeeded.  But  no  praise  is  due  to  me 
for  that.  When  I  die  "  Armor"  is  to  be  destroyed 
unread  :  not  even  Isabel  is  to  see  it.  For 
women  will  misunderstand  each  other  ;  and,  dear 
and  precious  to  me  as  my  sweet  wife  is,  I  could 
not  bear  that  she  or  any  one  should  cast  so  much 
as  a  thought  of  scorn  upon  the  memory  of  the 
writer,  upon  my  poor  dead,  "  unavailable,"  unac 
cepted  "  Miss  Grief." 


LOVE  IN  OLD  CLOATHES. 

BY  H.  C.  BUNNER. 


NEWE  YORK,  ye  ist  Aprile,  1883. 

YK  worste  of  my  ailment  is  this,  y*  it  groweth 
not  Less  with  much  nursinge,  but  is  like  to  those 
fevres  wch  ye  leeches  Starve,  'tis  saide,  for  that  y° 
more  Bloode  there  be  in  ye  Sicke  man's  Bodie,  ye 
morefoodeis  there  for  ye  Distemper  to  feede  upon. 
—And  it  is  moste  fittinge  yt  I  come  backe  to  ys  my 
Journall  (wherein  I  have  not  writt  a  Lyne  these 
manye  months)  on  ye  ist  of  Aprile,  beinge  in  some 
Sort  rnyne  owne  foole  and  ye  foole  of  Love,  and  a 
poore  Butt  on  whome  his  hearte  hath  play'd  a 
Sorrj;  tricke. — 

For  it  is  surelie  a  strange  happenninge,  that  I, 
who  am  ofte  accompted  a  man  of  yc  Worlde,  (as  y° 
Phrase  goes,)  sholde  be  soe  Overtaken  &  caste 
downe  lyke  a  Schoole-boy  or  a  countrie  Bumpkin, 
by  a  meere  Mayde,  &  sholde  set  to  Groaninge  and 
Sighinge,  &,  for  that  She  will  not  have  me  Sighe  to 

**#  Century  Magazine,  September,  1883. 


^      LOVE   IN  OLD    C LOATHES.  41 

Her,  to  Groaninge  and  Sighinge  on  paper,  wch  is 
ye  greter  Foolishnesse  in  Me,  y*  some  one  maye 
reade  it  Here-after,  who  hath  taken  his  dose  of  y3 
same  Physicke,  and  made  no  Wrye  faces  over  it  ; 
in  wch  case  I  doubte  I  shall  be  much  laugh'd  at. — 
Yet  soe  much  am  I  a  foole,  and  soe  enamour'd  of 
my  Foolishnesse,  yfc  I  have  a  sorte  of  Shamefull 
Joye  in  tellinge,  even  to  my  Journal!,  yl  I  am 
mightie  deepe  in  Love  withe  ye  yonge  Daughter  of 
Mistresse  Ffrench,  and  all  maye  knowe  what  an 
Angell  is  ye  Daughter,  since  I  have  chose  Mra* 
French  for  my  Mother  in  Lawe. — (Though  she  will 
have  none  of  my  choosinge.) — And  I  likewise  take 
cornforte  in  ye  Fancie,  y*  this  poore  Sheete,  whon  I 
write,  may  be  made  of  ye  Raggs  of  some  lucklesse 
Lover,  and  maye  ye  more  readilie  drinke  up  my 
complaininge  Inke. — 

This  muche  I  have  learnt  yl  Fraunce  distilles 
not,  nor  ye  Indies  growe  not,  ye  Remedie  for  my 
Aile. — For  when  I  ist  became  sensible  of  ye  folly  of 
my  Suite,  I  tooke  to  drynkinge  &  smoakinge, 
thinkinge  to  cure  my  minde,  but  all  I  got  was  a 
head  ache,  for  fellow  to  my  Hearte  ache. — A 
sorrie  Payre  ! — I  then  made  Shifte,  for  a  while, 
withe  a  Bicycle,  but  breakinge  of  Bones  mendes  no 
breakinge  of  Heartes,  and  60  myles  a  Daye  bringes 
me  no  nearer  to  a  Weddinge. — This  beinge  Lowe 
Sondaye,  (wch  my  Hearte  telleth  me  better  than  ye 
Allmanack,)  I  will  goe  to  Churche  ;  wh.  I  maye 
chaunce  to  see  her. — Laste  weeke,  her  Eastre  bon- 
nett  vastlie  pleas'd  me,  beinge  most  cunninglie 


42  LOVE  IN  OLD    C LOATHES. 

devys'd   in  ye  mode  of  oure    Grandmothers,   and 
verie  lyke  to  a  coales  Scuttle,  of  white  satine.— 

2nd  Aprile. 

I  trust  I  make  no  more  moane,  than  is  just  for  a 
man  in  my  case,  but  there  is  small  comforte  m 
lookinge  at  ye  backe  of  a  white  Satine  bonnett  for 
two  Houres,  and  I  maye  saye  as  much. — Neither 
any  cheere  in  Her  goinge  out  of  ye  Churche,  & 
Walkinge  downe  ye  Avenue,  with  a  Puppe  by  ye 
name  of  Williamson. 

4th  Aprile. 

Because  a  man  have  a  Hatt  with  a  Brimme  to  it 
like  y°  Poope-Decke  of  a  Steam-Shippe,  and 
breeches  lyke  ye  Case  of  an  umbrella,  and  have 
loste  money  on  Hindoo,  he  is  not  therefore  in  ye 
beste  Societie. — I  made  this  observation,  at  ye 
Clubbe,  laste  nighte,  in  ye  hearinge  of  Wmson,  who 
made  a  mightie  Pretence,  to  reade  ye  Sp4  of  ye 
Tymes. — I  doubte  it  was  scurvie  of  me,  but  it  did 
me  muche  goode. 

7th  Aprile. 

Ye  manner  of  my  meetinge  with  Her  and  fallinge 
in  Love  with  Her  (for  ye  two  were  of  one  date)  is 
thus — I  was  made  acquainte  withe  Her  on  a  Wed- 
nesdaie,  at  ye  House  of  Mistresse  Varick,  ('twas  a 
Reception,)  but  did  not  hear  Her  Name,  nor  She 
myne,  by  reason  of  ye  noise,  and  of  Mrsse  Varick 
having  but  lately  a  newe  sett  of  Teethe,  of  wh.  she 
had  not  yet  gott,  as  it  were,  yc  just  Pitche  and 
accordance. — I  sayde  to  Her  that  ye  Weather  was 


LOVE   IN  OLD    C LOATHES.  43 

warm  for  that  season  of  ye  yeare. — She  made  an 
swer  She  thought  I  was  right,  for  Mr  Williamson 
had  saide  ye  same  thinge  to  Her  not  a  minute  past 
— I  tolde  Her  She  muste  not  holde  it  originall  or 
an  Invention  of  Wmson,  for  ye  Speache  had  beene 
manie  yeares  in  my  Familie. — Answer  was  made, 
She  wolde  be  muche  bounden  to  me  if  I  wolde 
maintaine  ye  Rightes  of  my  Familie,  and  lett  all 
others  from  usinge  of  my  propertie,  when  pefceiv- 
inge  Her  to  be  of  a  livelie  Witt,  I  went  about  to 
ingage  her  in  converse,  if  onlie  so  I  mighte  looke 
into  Her  Eyes,  wh.  were  of  a  coloure  suche  as  I 
have  never  seene  before,  more  like  to  a  Pansie,  or 
some  such  flower,  than  anything  else  I  can  corn- 
pair  with  them. — Shortlie  we  grew  most  friendlie, 
so  that  She  did  aske  me  if  I  colde  keepe  a  Secrett. 
—I  answering  I  colde,  She  saide  She  was  anhun- 
gred,  having  Shopp'd  all  ye  forenoone  since  Break 
fast. — She  pray'd  me  to  gett  Her  some  Foode. — 
What,  I  ask'd. — She  answer'd  merrilie,  a  Beafe- 
steake.— I  tolde  Her  y1  that  Confection  was  not  on 
yc  Side-Boarde  ;  but  I  presentlie  brought  Her  such 
as  there  was,  &  She  beinge  behinde  a  Screane,  I 
stoode  in  ye  waie,  so  y1  none  mighte  see  Her,  & 
She  did  eate  and  drynke  as  followeth,  to  witt — 

iij  cupps  of  Bouillon  (wch  is  a  Tea,  or  Tisane,  of 

Beafe,  made  verie  hott  &  thinne) 
iv  Alberte  biscuit 
ij  Eclairs 
i  creame-cake 


44  LOVE  IN  OLD   C LOATHES. 

together  with  divers  small  cates  &  comfeits  whof  I 
know  not  ye  names. 

So  yfc  I  was  grievously  afeard  for  Her  Digestion, 
leste  it  be  over-tax'd.  Saide  this  to  Her,  however 
addinge  it  was  my  Conceite,  yi  by  some  Processe, 
lyke  Alchemic,  whby  ye  baser  metals  are  transmuted 
into  golde,  so  ye  grosse  mortall  foode  was  on  Her 
lippes  chang'd  to  yc  fabled  Nectar  &  Ambrosia  of 
ye  Gods. — She  tolde  me  'twas  a  sillie  Speache,  yet 
seam'd  not  ill-pleas'd  withall. — She  hath  a  verie 
prettie  Fashion,  or  Tricke,  of  smilinge,  when  She 
hath  made  an  end  of  speakinge,  and  layinge  Her 
finger  upon  Her  nether  Lippe,  like  as  She  wolde 
bid  it  be  stille.  —  After  some  more  Talke,  whin 
She  show'd  that  Her  Witt  was  more  deepe,  and 
Her  minde  more  seriouslie  inclin'd,  than  I  had 
Thoughte  from  our  first  Jestinge,  She  beinge  call'd 
to  go  thence,  I  did  see  Her  mother,  whose  face  I 
knewe,  &  was  made  sensible,  yl  I  had  given  my 
Hearte  to  ye  daughter  of  a  House  wh.  with  myne 
ovvne  had  longe  been  at  grievous  Feud,  for  ye  folly 
of  oure  Auncestres. — Havinge  come  to  wh.  heavie 
momente  in  my  Tale,  I  have  no  Patience  to  write 
more  to-nighte. 

22nd  Aprile. 

I  was  mynded  to  write  no  more  in  ys  journall, 
for  verie  Shame's  sake,  yl  I  shoude  so  complayne, 
lyke  a  Childe,  whose  toie  is  taken  fm  him,  butt 
(mayhapp  for  it  is  nowe  ye  fulle  Moone,  &  a  moste 
grcavous  period  for  them  yl  are  Love-strucke)  I  am 


LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES.  45 

fayne,  lyke  yc  Drunkarde  who  maye  not  abstayne 
fm  his  cupp,  to  set  me  anewe  to  recordinge  of  My 
Dolorous  mishapp. — When  I  sawe  Her  agayn,  She 
beinge  aware  of  my  name,  &  of  ye  division  betwixt 
oure  Houses,  wolde  have  none  of  me,  butt  I  wolde 
nott  be  putt  Off,  &  made  bolde  to  question  Her, 
why  She  sholde  showe  me  suche  exceedg  Coldness. 
— She  answer'd,  'twas  wel  knowne  what  Wronge 
my  Grandefather  had  done  Her  G. father. — I  saide, 
She  confounded  me  with  My  G. father — we  were 
nott  ye  same  Persone,  he  beinge  muche  my  Elder, 
&  besydes  Deade. — She  wd  have  it,  'twas  no  matter 
for  jestinge. — I  tolde  Her,  I  wolde  be  resolv'd, 
what  grete  Wronge  yis  was. — Y3  more  for  to  make 
Speache  thn  for  mine  owne  advertisem*,  for  I  knewe 
wel  ye  whole  Knaverie,  wh.  She  rehears'd,  Howe 
my  G. father  had  cheated  Her  G. father  of  Landes 
upp  ye  River,  with  more,  howe  my  G. father  had 
impounded  ye  Cattle  of  Hern. — I  made  answer, 
'twas  foolishnesse,  in  my  mynde,  for  ye  iiid  Gen 
eration  to  so  quarrell  over  a  Parsel  of  rascallie 
Landes,  y*  had  long  ago  beene  solde  for  Taxes,  yfc 
as  to  ye  Cowes,  I  wolde  make  them  goode,  &  thr 
Produce  &  Offspringe,  if  it  tooke  ye  whole  Washtu 
Markett. — She  however  tolde  me  y*  ye  Ffrenche 
familie  had  ye  where  wal  to  buye  what  they  lack'd 
in  Butter,  Beafe  &  Milke,  and  likewise  in  Veale, 
wh.  laste  I  tooke  much  to  Hearte,  wh.  She  seeinge, 
became  more  gracious  &,  on  my  pleadinge,  ac 
corded  y1  I  sholde  have  ye  Privilege  to  speake  with 
Her  when  we  next  met.  —  Butt  neythcr  then,  nor 


46  LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES. 

at  anie  other  Tyme  thafter  wolde  She  suffer  me  to 
visitt  Her.  So  I  was  harde  putt  to  it  to  compass 
waies  of  gettinge  to  see  Her  at  such  Houses  as  She 
mighte  be  att,  for  Routs  or  Feasts,  or  ye  lyke. — 

But  though  I  sawe  Her  manie  tymes,  oure  con 
verse  was  ever  of  yis  Complex0;  &  ye  accursed 
G. father  satt  downe,  &  rose  upp  with  us. — Yet 
colde  I  see  by  Her  aspecte,  y*  I  had  in  some  sorte 
Her  favoure,  &  y*  I  mislyk'd  Her  not  so  gretelie  as 
She  wd  have  me  thinke. — So  y1  one  daie,  ('twas  in 
Januarie,  &  verie  colde,)  I,  beinge  moste  distrackt, 
saide  to  Her,  I  had  tho't  'twolde  pleasure  Her 
more,  to  be  friends  vv.  a  man,  who  had  a  knave  for 
a  G. father,  y11  with  One  who  had  no  G. father  att 
alle,  lyke  Wmson  (ye  Puppe).— She  made  answer,  I 
was  exceedinge  fresshe,  or  some  such  matter.  She 
cloath'd  her  thoughte  in  phrase  more  befittinge  a 
Gentlewoman. — Att  this  I  colde  no  longer  con- 
tayne  myself,  but  tolde  Her  roundlie,  I  lov'd  Her, 
&  'twas  my  Love  made  me  soe  unmannerlie. — And 
w.  yis  speache  I  att  ye  leaste  made  an  End  of  my 
Uncertaintie,  for  She  bade  me  speake  w.  Her  no 
more. — I  wolde  be  determin'd,  whether  I  was 
Naught  to  Her.— She  made  Answer  She  colde  not 
justlie  say  I  was  Naught,  seeing  y*  whever  She 
mighte  bee,  I  was  One  too  manie. — I  saide,  'twas 
some  Comforte,  I  had  even  a  Place  in  Her 
thoughtes,  were  it  onlie  in  Her  disfavour. — She 
saide,  my  Solace  was  indeede  grete,  if  it  kept  pace 
with  ye  measure  of  Her  Disfavour,  for,  in  plain 
Terms,  She  hated  me,  &  on  Her  intreatinge  of  me 


LOVE  IN  OLD   C LOATHES.  47 

to  goe,  I  went. — Yis  happ'd  att  ye  house  of  Mrss 
Varicke,  wh.  I  ist  met  Her,  who  (Mrss  Varicke)  was 
for  staying  me,  yl  I  might  eate  some  Ic'd  Cream, 
butt  of  a  Truth  I  was  chill'd  to  my  Taste  all- 
readie. — Albeit  I  afterwards  tooke  to  walkinge 
of  ye  Streets  till  near  Midnight. — 'Twas  as  I  saide 
before  in  Januarie  &  exceedinge  colde. 

20th  Maie. 

How  wearie  is  yis  dulle  procession  of  ye  Yeare  ! 
For  it  irketh  my  Soule  y*  cache  Monthe  shoude 
come  so  aptlie  after  ye  Month  afore,  &  Nature 
looke  so  Smug,  as  She  had  done  some  grete  thinge. 
— Surelie  if  she  make  no  Change,  she  hath  work'd  no 
Miracle,  for  we  knowe  wel,  what  we  maye  look  for. 
— Ye  Vine  under  my  Window  hath  broughte  forth 
Purple  Blossoms,  as  itt  hath  cache  Springe  these 
xii  Yeares. — I  wolde  have  had  them  Redd,  or  Blue, 
or  I  knowe  not  what  Coloure,  for  I  am  sicke  of 
likinge  of  Purple  a  Dozen  Springes  in  Order. — 
And  wh.  moste  galls  me  is  yis,  I  knowe  howe  yis 
sadd  Rounde  will  goe  on,  &  Maie  give  Place  to 
June,  &  she  to  July,  &  onlie  my  Hearte  blossom 
not  nor  my  Love  growe  no  greener. 

2nd  June. 

I  and  my  Foolishnesse,  we  laye  Awake  last  night 
till  ye  Sunrise  gun,  wh.  was  Shott  att  4^  o'ck,  & 
wh.  beinge  hearde  in  y*  stillnesse  fm.  an  Incredible 
Distance,  seem'd  lyke  as  'twere  a  Full  Stopp,  or 
Period  putt  to  yis  Wakinge-Dreminge,  what  I  did 


48  LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES. 

turne  a  newe  Leafe  in  my  Counsells,  and  after 
much  Meditation,  have  commenc't  a  newe  Chap 
ter,  wh.  I  hope  maye  leade  to  a  better  Conclusion, 
than  them  y1  came  afore. — For  I  am  nowe  resolv'd, 
&  havinge  begunn  wil  carry  to  an  Ende,  y*  if  I 
maie  not  over-come  my  Passion,  I  maye  at  ye  least 
over-corn  ye  Melanchollie,  &  Spleene,  borne  yof,  & 
beinge  a  Lover,  be  none  ye  lesse  a  Man. — To  wh. 
Ende  I  have  come  to  yis  Resolution,  to  departe  fm. 
ye  Towne,  &  to  goe  to  ye  Countrie-House  of  my 
Frend,  Will  Winthrop,  who  has  often  intreated  me, 
&  has  instantlie  urg'd,  yl  I  sholde  make  him  a 
Visitt. — And  I  take  much  Shame  to  myselfe,  y*  I 
have  not  given  him  yis  Satisfaction  since  he  was 
married,  wh.  is  nowe  ii  Yeares. — A  goode  Fellowe, 
&  I  minde  me  a  grete  Burden  to  his  Frends  when 
he  was  in  Love,  in  wh.  Plight  I  mockt  him,  who 
am  nowe,  I  much  feare  me,  mockt  myselfe. 

3rd  June. 

Pack'd  my  cloathes,  beinge  Sundaye.  Yu  better 
ye  Daie,  yc  better  ye  Deede. 

4th  June. 
Goe  downe  to  Babylon  to-daye. 

5th  June. 

Att  Babylon,  att  ye  Cottage  of  Will  Winthrop, 
wh.  is  no  Cottage,  but  a  grete  House,  Red,  w. 
Verandahs,  &  builded  in  ye  Fashn  of  Her  Maiestie 
Q.  Anne. — Found  a  mightie  Housefull  of  People. 


LOVE  IN   OLD   C LOATHES.  49 

— Will,  his  Wife,  a  verie  proper  fayre  Ladie,  who 
gave  me  moste  gracious  Reception,  Mrss  Smithe,  ye 
ii  Gresham  girles  (knowne  as  ye  Titteringe  Twins), 
Bob  White,  Virginia  Kinge  &  her  Mothr,  Clarence 
Winthrop,  &  ye  whole  Alexander  Family. — A  grete 
Gatheringeforsoearlie  in  ye  Summer. — In  ye  after- 
noone  play'd  Lawne-Tenniss. — Had  for  Partner 
one  of  ye  Twinns,  agst  Clarence  Winthrop  &  ye 
other  Twinn,  wh.  by  beinge  Confus'd,  I  loste  iii 
games. — Was  voted  a  Duffer. — Clarence  Winthrop 
moste  unmannerlie  merrie.  — He  call'd  me  ye  Sad- 
Ey'd  Romeo,  &  lykewise  cut  down  ye  Hammocke 
whin  I  laye,  allso  tied  up  my  Cloathes  wh.  we  were 
att  Bath. — He  sayde,  he  Chaw'd  them,  a  moste 
barbarous  worde  for  a  moste  barbarous  Use. — Wh. 
we  were  Boyes,  &  he  did  yis  thinge,  I  was  wont  to 
trounce  him  Soundlie,  but  nowe  had  to  contente 
Myselfe  w.  beatinge  of  him  iii  games  of  Billyardes 
in  ye  Evg.,  &  w.  daringe  of  him  to  putt  on  ye 
Gloves  w.  me,  for  Funne,  wh.  he  mighte  not  doe, 
for  I  coude  knocke  him  colde. 

ioth  June. 

Beinge  gon  to  my  Roome  somewhatt  earlie,  for 
I  found  myselfe  of  a  peevish  humour,  Clarence 
came  to  me,  and  prayd  a  few  minutes'  Speache. — 
Sayde  'twas  Love  made  him  so  Rude  &  Boysterous 
he  was  privilie  betroth'd  to  his  Cozen,  Angelica 
Robertes,  she  whose  Father  lives  at  Islipp,  & 
colde  not  containe  Himselfe  for  Jove. — I  sayinge, 
there  was  a  Breache  in  ye  Familie,  he  made 


50  LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES. 

Answer,  'twas  true,  her  Father  &  His,  beinge 
Cozens,  did  hate  each  other  moste  heartilie,  butt 
for  him  he  cared  not  for  that,  &  for  Angelica,  She 
gave  not  a  Continentall. — But,  sayde  I,  Your 
Consideration  matters  mightie  Little,  synce  ye 
Governours  will  not  heare  to  it. — He  answered 
'twas  for  that  he  came  to  me,  I  must  be  his  allie, 
for  reason  of  our  olde  Friendsp.  With  that  I  had 
no  Hearte  to  heare  more,  he  made  so  Light  of 
suche  a  Division  as  parted  me  &  my  Happinesse, 
but  tolde  him  I  was  his  Frend,  wolde  serve  him 
when  he  had  Neede  of  me,  &  presentlie  seeing  my 
Humour,  he  made  excuse  to  goe,  &  left  me  to  write 
downe  this,  sicke  in  Mynde,  and  thinkinge  ever  of 
ye  Woman  who  wil  not  oute  of  my  Thoughtes  for 
any  change  of  Place,  neither  of  employe. — For  in- 
deede  I  doe  love  Her  moste  heartilie,  so  y*  my 
Wordes  can  not  saye  it,  nor  will  yis  Booke  containe 
it. — So  I  wil  even  goe  to  Sleepe,  y*  in  my  Dreames 
perchaunce  my  Fancie  maye  do  my  Hearte  better 
Service. 

12th  June. 

She  is  here.— What  Spyte  is  yi9  of  Fate  &  ye 
alter'd  gods  !  That  I,  who  mighte  nott  gett  to  see 
Her  when  to  See  was  to  Hope,  muste  nowe  daylie 
have  Her  in  my  Sighte,  stucke  lyke  a  fayre  Apple 
under  olde  Tantalus  his  Nose. — Goinge  downe  to 
ye  Hotell  to-day,  for  to  gett  me  some  Tobackoe, 
was  made  aware  yfc  ye  Ffrench  familie  had  hyred 
one  of  ye  Cottages  round-abouts. — 'Tis  a  goodlie 


LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES.  51 

Dwellinge  Without — Woude  I  coude  speake  with 
as  much  Assurance  of  y°  Innsyde  ! 

13th  June. 

Goinge  downe  to  ye  Hotell  againe  To-day,  for 
more  Tobackoe,  savve  ye  accursed  name  of  Wmson 
on  ye  Registre. — Went  about  to  a  neighbouringe 
Farm  &  satt  me  downe  behynd  ye  Barne,  for  a  j^ 
an  Houre. — Frighted  ye  Horned  Cattle  w.  talkinge 
to  My  Selfe. 

i5th  June. 

I  wil  make  an  Ende  to  yis  Businesse. — Wil  make 
no  longer  Staye  here. — Sawe  Her  to-day,  driven 
Home  fm.  ye  Beache,  about  4^  of  ye  After-noone, 
by  Wmson,  in  his  Dogge-Carte,  wh.  ye  Cadde  has 
broughten  here. — Wil  betake  me  to  ye  Boundlesse 
Weste — Not  yl  I  care  aught  for  ye  Boundlesse 
Weste,  butt  yfc  I  shal  doe  wel  if  haplie  I  leave  my 
Memourie  ams  ye  Apaches  &  bringe  Home  my 
Scalpe. 

i6th  June. 

To  Fyre  Islande,  in  Winthrop's  Yacht  —  ye 
Twinnes  w.  us,  so  Titteringe  &  Choppinge  Laugh 
ter,  yi  'twas  worse  yn  a  Flocke  of  Sandpipers. — - 
Found  a  grete  Concourse  of  people  there,  Her 
amonge  them,  in  a  Suite  of  blue,  y*  became 
Her  bravelie. — She  swimms  lyke  to  a  Fishe,  butt 
everie  Stroke  of  Her  white  Arms  (of  a  lovelie 
Roundnesse)  clefte,  as  't  were,  my  Hearte,  rather 


52  LOVE   IN   OLD    C LOATHES. 

y"  ye  Water. — She  bow'd  to  me,  on  goinge  into  ye 
Water,  w.  muche  Dignitie,  &  agayn  on  Cominge 
out,  but  yis  Tyme  w.  lesse  Dignitie,  by  reason  of 
ye  Water  in  Her  Cloathes,  &  Her  Haire  in  Her 
Eyes. — 

iyth  June. 

Was  for  goinge  awaie  To-morrowe,  butt  Clarence 
cominge'againe  to  my  Chamber,  &  mightilie  pur- 
swadinge  of  me,  I  feare  I  am  comitted  to  a  verie 
sillie  Undertakinge. — For  I  am  promis'd  to  Help 
him,  secretlie  to  wedd  his  Cozen. — He  wolde  take 
no  Deniall,  wolde  have  it,  his  Brother  car'd 
Naughte,  'twas  but  ye  Fighte  of  theyre  Fathers, 
he  was  bounde  it  sholde  be  done,  &  'twere  best  I 
stoode  his  Witnesse,  who  was  wel  lyked  of  bothe 
ye  Braunches  of  ye  Family. — So  'twas  agree'd,  y*  I 
shal  stay  Home  to-morrowe  fm.  ye  Expedition  to 
Fyre  Islande,  feigning  a  Head-Ache,  (wh.  indeede 
I  meante  to  do,  in  any  Happ,  for  I  cannot  see  Her 
againe,)  &  shall  meet  him  at  ye  little  Churche  on  ye 
Southe  Roade. — He  to  drive  to  Islipp  to  fetch 
Angelica,  lykewise  her  Witnesse,  who  sholde  be 
some  One  of  ye  Girles,  she  hadd  not  yet  made  her 
Choice. — I  made  yis  Condition,  it  sholde  not  be 
either  of  ye  Twinnes. — No,  nor  Bothe,  for  that 
matter. — Inquiringe  as  to  ye  Clergyman,  he  sayde 
ye  Dominie  was  allreadie  Squar'd. 


LOVE   IN   OLD    C LOATHES.  53 

NEWE  YORK,  YB  BUCKINGHAM  HOTELL, 

i9th  June. 

I  am  come  to  ye  laste  Entrie  I  shall  ever  putt 
downe  in  ys  Booke,  and  needes  must  y*  I  putt  it 
downe  quicklie,  for  all  hath  Happ'd  in  so  short  a 
Space,  y*  my  Heade  whirles  w.  thynkinge  of  it. 
Ye  after-noone  of  Yesterdaye,  I  set  about  Counter- 
feittinge  of  a  Head-Ache,  &  so  wel  did  I  compasse 
it,  y1 1  verilie  thinke  one  of  ye  Twinnes  was  mynded 
to  Stay  Home  &  nurse  me. — All  havinge  gone  off, 
&  Clarence  on  his  waye  to  Islipp,  I  sett  forth  for  y8 
Churche,  where  arriv'd  I  founde  it  emptie,  w.  y° 
Door  open.— Went  in  &writh'don  ye  hard  Benches 
a  ^  of  an  Houre,  when,  hearinge  a  Sounde,  I 
look'd  up  &  saw  standinge  in  ye  Door-waye, 
Katherine  Ffrench. — She  seem'd  muche  astonished, 
saying  You  Here  !  or  ye  lyke. — I  made  Answer  & 
sayde  y*  though  my  Familie  were  greate  Sinners, 
yet  had  they  never  been  Excommunicate  by  ye 
Churche. — She  sayde,  they  colde  not  Putt  Out 
what  never  was  In.— While  I  was  bethynkinge  me 
wh.  I  rnighte  answer  to  yis,  she  went  on,  sayinge  I 
must  excuse  Her,  She  wolde  goe  upp  in  ye  Organ- 
Lofte. — I  enquiring  what  for  ?  She  sayde  to  prac 
tice  on  ye  Organ. — She  turn'd  verie  Redd,  of  a 
warm  Coloure,  as  She  sayde  this. — I  ask'd  Do  you 
come  hither  often  ?  She  replyinge  Yes,  I  enquir'd 
how  ye  Organ  lyked  Her. — She  sayde  Right  well, 
when  I  made  question  more  curiously  (for  She  grew 
more  Redd  cache  moment)  how  was  ye  Action  ?  yc 
Tone  ?  how  manie  Stopps  ?  What  She  growinge 


54  LOVE   IN  OLD   C LOATHES. 

gretelie  Confus'd,  I  led  Her  into  ye  Churche,  & 
show'd  Her  y*  there  was  no  Organ,  ye  Choire 
beinge  indeede  a  Band,  of  i  Tuninge-Forke,  i 
Kitt,  &  i  Horse-Fiddle.— At  this  She  fell  to  Smil- 
inge  &  Blushinge  att  one  Tyme. — She  perceiv'd 
our  Errandes  were  ye  Same,  &  crav'd  Pardon  for 
Her  Fibb.— I  tolde  Her,  If  She  came  Thither  to  be 
Witness  at  her  Frend's  W'eddinge,  'twas  no  greate 
Fibb,  'twolde  indeede  be  Practice  for  Her. — This 
havinge  a  rude  Sound,  I  added  I  thankt  ye  Starrs 
yl  had  bro't  us  Together.  She  sayde  if  ye  Starrs 
appoint'd  us  to  meete  no  oftener  yn  this  Couple 
shoude  be  Wedded,  She  was  wel  content.  This 
cominge  on  me  lyke  a  last  Buffett  of  Fate,  that  She 
shoude  so  despitefully  intreate  me,  I  was  suddenlie 
Seized  with  so  Sorrie  a  Humour,  &  withal  so 
angrie,  yl  I  colde  scarce  Containe  myselfe,  but 
went  &  Sat  downe  neare  ye  Doore,  lookinge  out  till 
Clarence  shd.  come  w.  his  Bride. — Looking  over 
my  Sholder,  I  sawe  yl  She  wente  fm.  Windowe  to 
Windowe  within,  Pluckinge  ye  Blossoms  fm.  ye 
Vines,  &  settinge  them  in  her  Girdle. — She  seem'd 
most  tall  and  faire,  &  swete  to  look  uponn,  &  itt 
Anger' d  me  ye  More. — Meanwhiles,  She  discours'd 
pleasantlie,  askinge  me  manie  questions,  to  the 
wh.  I  gave  but  shorte  and  churlish  answers.  She 
ask'd  Did  I  nott  Knowe  Angelica  Roberts  was  Her 
best  Frend  ?  How  longe  had  I  knowne  of  ye 
Betrothal  ?  Did  I  thinke  'twolde  knitt  ye  House 
together,  &  Was  it  not  Sad  to  see  a  Familie  thus 
Divided  ? — I  answer'd  Her,  I  wd.  not  robb  a  Man 


LOVE  IN  OLD   C LOATHES.  55 

of  ye  precious  Righte  to  Quarrell  with  his  Rela 
tions. — And  then,  with  meditatinge  on  ye  goode 
Lucke  of  Clarence,  &  my  owne  harde  Case,  I  had 
suche  a  sudden  Rage  of  peevishnesse  yfc  I  knewe 
scarcelie  what  I  did. — Soe  when  She  ask'd  me  mer- 
rilie  why  I  turn'd  my  Backe  on  Her,  I  made  Reply 
I  had  turn'd  my  Backe  on  muche  Follie. — Wh.  was 
no  sooner  oute  of  my  Mouthe  than  I  was  mightilie 
Sorrie  for  it,  and  turninge  aboute,  I  perceiv'd  She 
was  in  Teares  &  weepinge  bitterlie.  What  my 
Hearte  wolde  holde  no  More,  &  I  rose  upp  &  tooke 
Her  in  my  arms  &  Kiss'd  &  Comforted  Her,  She 
makinge  no  Denyal,  but  seeminge  gretelie  to 
Neede  such  Solace,  wh.  I  was  not  Loathe  to  give 
Her. — Whiles  we  were  at  This,  onlie  She  had  gott 
to  Smilinge,  &  to  sayinge  of  Things  which  even  yl3 
paper  shal  not  knowe,  came  in  ye  Dominie,  sayinge 
He  judg'd  We  were  the  Couple  he  came  to  Wed. — 
With  him  ye  Sexton  &  ye  Sexton's  Wife. — My  swete 
Kate,  alle  as  rosey  as  Venus's  Nape,  was  for  Deny- 
inge  of  yi3,  butt  I  wolde  not  have  it,  &  sayde  Yes.— 
She  remonstrating  w.  me,  privilie,  I  tolde  Her  She 
must  not  make  me  Out  a  Liar,  y1  to  Deceave  ye  Man 
of  God  were  a  greavous  Sinn,  yt  I  had  gott  Her 
nowe,  &  wd.  not  lett  her  Slipp  from  me,  &  did  soe 
Talke  Her  Downe,  &  w.  suche  Strengthe  of  joie,  yfc 
allmost  before  She  knewe  it,  we  Stoode  upp,  &  were 
Wed,  w.  a  Ringe  (tho*  She  Knewe  it  nott)  wh.  be- 
long'd  to  My  G.  father.  (Him  y*  Cheated  Hern.)— 
Wh.  was  no  sooner  done,  than  in  came  Clarence 
&  Angelica,  &  were  Wedded  in  theyre  Turn. — The 


56  LOVE  IN  OLD   CLOATHES. 

Clergyman  greatelie  surprised,  but  more  att  y8 
Largenesse  of  his  Fee. 

This  Businesse  beinge  Ended,  we  fled  by  ye 
Trayne  of  43^  o'cke,  to  yis  Place,  where  we  wait  till 
y°  Bloode  of  all  ye  Ffrenches  have  Tyme  to  coole 
downe,  for  ye  wise  Mann  who  meeteth  his  Mother 
in  Lawe  ye  ist  tyme,  wil  meete  her  when  she  is 
Milde.— 

And  so  I  close  yis  Journall,  wh.,  tho'  for  ye  moste 
Parte  'tis  but  a  peevish  Scrawle,  hath  one  Page  of 
Golde,  whon  I  have  writt  ye  laste  strange  Happ 
whby  I  have  layd  Williamson  by  ye  Heeles  &  found 

me  yc  sweetest  Wife  y*  ever 

*  *  * 

stopped  a  man's  Mouthe  w.  kisses  for  writinge 
of  Her  Prayses. 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 

BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


hundred  dollars  a  year!"  echoed  Fanny 
Bellairs,  as  the  first  silver  gray  of  the  twi 
light  spread  over  her  picture. 

"  And  my  art/'  modestly  added  the  painter, 
prying  into  his  bright  copy  of  the  lips  pronouncing 
upon  his  destiny. 

"  And  how  much  may  that  be,  at  the  present  rate 
of  patronage  —  one  picture  a  year,  painted  for 
love  !" 

"  Fanny,  how  can  you  be  so  calculating  !" 

"  By  the  bumps  over  my  eyebrows,  I  suppose. 
Why,  my  dear  coz,  we  have  another  state  of  exist 
ence  to  look  forward  to  —  old  man-age  and  old 
woman-age  !  What  am  I  to  do  with  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  when  my  old  frame  wants  gilding 
— (to  use  one  of  your  own  similes) — I  sha' n't  always 
be  pretty  Fanny  Bellairs  !" 

#*$  From  "  People  I  Have  Met  "  (now  out  of  print). 


58  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

11  But,  good  Heavens  !  we  shall  grow  old  to 
gether  I"  exclaimed  the  painter,  sitting  down  at 
her  feet,  "  and  what  will  you  care  for  other  admira 
tion,  if  your  husband  see  you  still  beautiful,  with 
the  eyes  of  memory  and  habit." 

"  Even  if  I  were  sure  he  would  so  look  upon  me," 
answered  Miss  Bellairs,  more  seriously,  "  I  cannot 
but  dread  an  old  age  without  great  means  of  em 
bellishment.  Old  people,  except  in  poetry  and  in 
very  primitive  society,  are  dishonored  by  wants 
and  cares.  And,  indeed,  before  we  are  old — when 
neither  young  nor  old — we  want  horses  and  otto 
mans,  kalydor  and  conservatories,  books,  pictures, 
and  silk  curtains— all  quite  out  of  the  range  of 
your  little  allowance,  don't  you  see  !" 

;<  You  do  not  love  me,  Fanny  !" 

"  I  do — and  will  marry  you,  Philip— as  I,  long 
ago,  with  my  whole  heart,  promised.  But  I  wish 
to  be  happy  with  you — as  happy,  quite  as  happy, 
as  is  at  all  possible,  with  our  best  efforts,  and 
coolest,  discreetest  management.  I  laugh  the 
matter  over  sometimes,  but  I  may  tell  you,  since 
you  are  determined  to  be  in  earnest,  that  I  have 
treated  it,  in  my  solitary  thought,  as  the  one  im 
portant  event  of  my  life — (so  indeed  it  is  !) — and, 
as  such,  worthy  of  all  forethought,  patience,  self- 
denial,  and  calculation.  To  inevitable  ills  I  can 
make  up  my  mind  like  other  people.  If  your  art 
were  your  only  hope  of  subsistence — why — I  don't 
know — (should  I  look  well  as  a  page  ?) — I  don't 
know  that  I  couldn't  run  your  errands  and  grind 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  59 

your  paints  in  hose  and  doublet.  But  there  is 
another  door  open  for  you — a  counting-house  door, 
to  be  sure — leading  to  opulence  and  all  the  appli 
ances  of  dignity  and  happiness,  and  through  this 
door,  my  dear  Philip,  the  art  you  would  live  by 
comes  to  pay  tribute  and  beg  for  patronage. 
Now,  out  of  your  hundred  and  twenty  reasons, 
give  me  the  two  stoutest  and  best,  why  you  should 
refuse  your  brother's  golden  offer  of  partnership — 
my  share,  in  your  alternative  of  poverty,  left  for 
the  moment  out  of  the  question/' 

Rather  overborne  by  the  confident  decision  of 
his  beautiful  cousin,  and  having  probably  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  must  ultimately  yield  to  her, 
Philip  replied  in  a  lower  and  more  dejected  tone  : 

"  If  you  were  not  to  be  a  sharer  in  my  renown, 
should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  acquire  it,  I  should 
feel  as  if  it  were  selfish  to  dwell  so  much  on  my 
passion  for  distinction,  and  my  devotion  to  my 
pencil  as  a  means  of  winning  it.  My  heart  is  full 
of  you — but  it  is  full  of  ambition,  too,  paradox 
though  it  be.  I  cannot  live  ignoble.  I  should  not 
have  felt  worthy  to  press  my  love  upon  you — 
worthy  to  possess  you — except  with  the  prospect 
of  celebrity  in  my  art.  You  make  the  world  dark 
to  me,  Fanny  !  You  close  down  the  sky,  when 
you  shut  out  this  hope  !  Yet  it  shall  be  so." 

Philip  paused  a  moment,  and  the  silence  was 
uninterrupted. 

"  There  was  another  feeling  I  had,  upon  which 
I  have  not  insisted,"  he  continued.  "  By  my 


60  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

brother's  project,  I  am  to  reside  almost  wholly 
abroad.  Even  the  little  stipend  I  have  to  offer  you 
now  is  absorbed  of  course  by  the  investment  of 
my  property  in  his  trading  capital,  and  marriage, 
till  I  have  partly  enriched  myself,  would  be  even 
more  hopeless  than  at  present.  Say  the  interval 
were  five  years — and  five  years  of  separation  !" 

"  With  happiness  in  prospect,  it  would  soon 
pass,  my  dear  Philip  •!" 

"But  is  there  nothing  wasted  in  this  time? 
My  life  is  yours — the  gift  of  love.  Are  not  these 
coming  five  years  the  very  flower  of  it  ! — a  mutual 
loss,  too,  for  are  they  not,  even  more  emphatically, 
the  very  flower  of  yours  ?  Eighteen  and  twenty- 
five  are  ages  at  which  to  marry,  not  ages  to  defer. 
During  this  time  the  entire  flow  of  my  existence  is 
at  its  crowning  fulness  —  passion,  thought,  joy, 
tenderness,  susceptibility  to  beauty  and  sweetness 
— all  I  have  that  can  be  diminished  or  tarnished, 
or  made  dull  by  advancing  age  and  contact  with 
the  world,  is  thrown  away — for  its  spring  and 
summer.  Will  the  autumn  of  life  repay  us  for 
this  ?  Will  it — even  if  we  are  rich  and  blest  with 
health,  and  as  capable  of  an  unblemished  union 
as  now  ?  Think  of  this  a  moment,  dear  Fanny  !" 

"  I  do — it  is  full  of  force  and  meaning,  and, 
could  we  marry  now,  with  a  tolerable  prospect  of 
competency,  it  would  be  irresistible.  But  poverty 
in  wedlock,  Philip — " 

"  What  do  you  call  poverty?  If  we  can  suffice 
for  each  other,  and  have  the  necessaries  of  life,  we 


TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  61 

are  not  poor  !  My  art  will  bring  us  consideration 
enough — which  is  the  main  end  of  wealth,  after  all 
— and,  of  society,  speaking  for  myself  only,  I  want 
nothing.  Luxuries  for  yourself,  Fanny  — means 
for  your  dear  comfort  and  pleasure — you  should 
not  want  if  the  world  held  them,  and  surely  the  un 
bounded  devotion  of  one  man  to  the  support  of  the 
one  woman  he  loves,  ought  to  suffice  for  the  task  ! 
I  am  strong — I  am  capable  of -labor — I  have  limbs 
to  toil,  if  my  genius  and  my  present  means  fail  me, 
and,  oh,  Heaven  !  you  could  not  want  !" 

"  No,  no,  no!  I  thought  not  of  want  !"  mur 
mured  Miss  Bellairs,  "  I  thought  only — " 

But  she  was  not  permitted  to  finish  the  sen 
tence. 

"  Then  my  bright  picture  for  the  future  may  be 
realized  !"  exclaimed  Philip,  knitting  his  hands 
together  in  a  transport  of  hope.  "  I  may  build  up 
a  reputation,  with  you  for  the  constant  partner  of 
its  triumphs  and  excitements  !  I  may  go  through 
the  world,  and  have  some  care  in  life  besides  sub 
sistence,  how  I  shall  sleep,  and  eat,  and  accumulate 
gold  ;  some  companion,  who,  from  the  threshold 
of  manhood,  shared  every  thought  —  and  knew 
every  feeling — some  pure  and  present  angel  who 
walked  with  me  and  purified  my  motives  and 
ennobled  my  ambitions,  and  received  from  my  lips 
and  eyes,  and  from  the  beating  of  my  heart  against 
her  own,  all  the  love  I  had  to  give  in  a  lifetime. 
Tell  me,  Fanny  !  tell  me,  my  sweet  cousin  !  is  not 
this  a  picture  of  bliss,  which,  combined  with  sue- 


62  TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

cess  in    my   noble  art,  might  make  a  Paradise  on 
earth  for  you  and  me  ?" 

The  hand  of  Fanny  Bellairs  rested  on  the  up 
turned  forehead  of  her  lover  as  he  sat  at  her  feet  in 
the  deepening  twilight,  and  she  answered  him  with 
such  sweet  words  as  are  linked  together  by  spells 
known  only  to  woman — but  his  palette  and  pencils 
were,  nevertheless,  burned  in  solemn  holocaust 
that  very  night,  and  the  lady  carried  her  point,  as 
ladies  must.  And,  to  the  importation  of  silks  from 
Lyons,  was  devoted,  thenceforth,  the  genius  of  a 
Raphael — perhaps  !  Who  knows  ? 

The  reader  will  naturally  have  gathered  from  this 
dialogue  that  Miss  Fanny  Bellairs  had  black  eyes, 
and  was  rather  below  the  middle  stature.  She  was 
a  belle,  and  it  is  only  belle-metal  of  this  particular 
description  which  is  not  fusible  by  "  burning 
words."  She  had  mind  enough  to  appreciate  fully 
the  romance  and  enthusiasm  of  her  cousin,  Philip 
Ballister,  and  knew  precisely  the  phenomena  which 
a  tall  blonde  (this  complexion  of  woman  being  solu 
ble  in  love  and  tears)  would  have  exhibited  under 
a  similar  experiment.  While  the  fire  of  her  love 
glowed,  therefore,  she  opposed  little  resistance, 
and  seemed  softened  and  yielding,  but  her  purpose 
remained  unaltered,  and  she  rang  out  "  No  !" 
the  next  morning,  with  a  tone  as  little  changed  as 
a  convent-bell  from  matins  to  vespers,  though  it 
has  passed  meantime  through  the  furnace  of  an 
Italian  noon. 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  63 

Fanny  was  not  a  designing  girl,  either.  She 
might  have  found  a  wealthier  customer  for  her 
heart  than  her  cousin  Philip.  And  she  loved  this 
cousin  as  truly  and  well  as  her  nature  would 
admit,  or  as  need  be,  indeed.  But  two  things  had 
conspired  to  give  her  the  unmalleable  quality  just 
described — a  natural  disposition  to  confide,  first 
and  foremost,  on  all  occasions,  in  her  own  sagacity, 
and  a  vivid  impression  made  upon  her  mind  by  a 
childhood  of  poverty.  At  the  age  of  twelve  she 
had  been  transferred  from  the  distressed  fireside  of 
her  mother,  Mrs.  Bellairs,  to  the  luxurious  roof  of 
her  aunt,  Mrs.  Ballister,  and,  her  mother  dying 
soon  after,  the  orphan  girl  was  adopted,  and 
treated  as  a  child  ;  but  the  memory  of  the  troubled 
hearth  at  which  she  had  first  learned  to  observe 
and  reason,  colored  all  the  purposes  and  affections, 
thoughts,  impulses,  and  wishes  of  the  ripening 
girl,  and  to  think  of  happiness  in  any  proximity  to 
privation  seemed  to  her  impossible,  even  though  it 
were  in  the  bosom  of  love.  Seeing  no  reason  to 
give  her  cousin  credit  for  any  knowledge  of  the 
world  beyond  his  own  experience,  she  decided  to 
think  for  him  as  well  as  love  him,  and,  not  being 
so  much  pressed  as  the  enthusiastic  painter  by  the 
"  besoin  d' 'aimer  et  de  se  faire  aimer  "  she  very  com 
posedly  prefixed,  to  the  possession  of  her  hand, 
the  trifling  achievement  of  getting  rich — quite  sure 
that  if  he  knew  as  much  as  she,  he  would  willingly 
run  that  race  without  the  incumbrance  of  matri 
mony. 


64  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Ballister,  senior,  had  left  the 
widow  and  her  two  boys  more  slenderly  provided 
for  than  was  anticipated  —  Phil's  portion,  after 
leaving  college,  producing  the  moderate  income 
before  mentioned.  The  elder  brother  had  em 
barked  in  his  father's  business,  and  it  was  thought 
best  on  all  hands  for  the  younger  Ballister  to 
follow  his  example.  But  Philip,  whose  college 
leisure  had  been  devoted  to  poetry  and  painting, 
and  whose  genius  for  the  latter,  certainly,  was  very 
decided,  brought  down  his  habits  by  a  resolute 
economy  to  the  limits  of  his  income,  and  took  up 
the  pencil  for  a  profession.  With  passionate 
enthusiasm,  great  purity  of  character,  distaste  for 
all  society  not  in  harmony  with  his  favorite  pur 
suit,  and  an  industry  very  much  concentrated  and 
rendered  effective  by  abstemious  habits,  Philip 
Ballister  was  very  likely  to  develop  what  genius 
might  lie  between  his  head  and  hand,  and  his  prog 
ress  in  the  first  year  had  been  allowed,  by  eminent 
artists,  to  give  very  unusual  promise.  The  Ballis- 
ters  were  still  together,  under  the  maternal  roof, 
and  the  painter's  studies  were  the  portraits  of  the 
family,  and  Fanny's  picture,  of  course,  much  the 
most  difficult  to  finish.  It  would  be  very  hard  if  a 
painter's  portrait  of  his  liege  mistress,  the  lady  of 
his  heart,  were  not  a  good  picture,  and  Fanny 
Bellairs  on  canvas  was  divine  accordingly.  If  the 
copy  had  more  softness  of  expression  than  the 
original  (as  it  was  thought  to  have),  it  only  proves 
that  wise  men  have  for  some  time  suspected, 


TWO  BUCKETS  nV  A    WELL.  65 

that  love  is  more  dumb  than  blind,  and  the  faults 
of  our  faultless  idols  are  noted,  however  uncon 
sciously.  Neither  thumb-screws  nor  hot  coals — 
nothing  probably  but  repentance  after  matrimony 
— would  have  drawn  from  Philip  Ballister,  in 
words,  the  same  correction  of  his  mistress's  foible 
that  had  oozed  out  through  his  treacherous  pencil  ! 

Cupid  is  often  drawn  as  a  stranger  pleading  to 
be  "  taken  in,"  but  it  Is  a  miracle  that  he  is  not 
invariably  drawn  as  a  portrait-painter.  A  bird  tied 
to  the  muzzle  of  a  gun  —  an  enemy  who  has 
written  a  book — an  Indian  prince  under  the  pro 
tection  of  Giovanni  Bulletto  (Tuscan  for  John 
Bull), — is  not  more  close  upon  demolition,  one 
would  think,  than  the  heart  of  a  lady  delivered 
over  to  a  painter's  eyes,  posed,  draped,  and  lighted 
with  the  one  object  of  studying  her  beauty.  If 
there  be  any  magnetism  in  isolated  attention,  any 
in  steadfast  gazing,  any  in  passes  of  the  hand  hither 
and  thither — if  there  be  any  magic  in  ce  doux  demi- 
jour  so  loved  in  France,  in  stuff  for  flattery  ready 
pointed  and  feathered,  in  freedom  of  admiration, 
"  and  all  in  the  way  of  business" — then  is  a  lov 
able  sitter  to  a  love-like  painter  in  "  parlous" 
vicinity  (as  the  new  school  would  phrase  it)  to 
sweet  heart-land  !  Pleasure  in  a  vocation  has  no 
offset  in  political  economy  as  honor  has  ("  the  more 
honor  the  less  profit"),  or  portrait-painters  would 
be  poorer  than  poets. 

And,  malgre  his  consciousness  of  the  quality 
which  required  softening  in  his  cousin's  beauty, 


66  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

and  malgre  his  rare  advantages  for  obtaining  over 
her  a  lover's  proper  ascendency,  Mr.  Philip  Ballis- 
ter  bowed  to  the  stronger  will  of  Miss  Fanny  Bell- 
airs,  and  sailed  for  France  on  his  apprenticeship 
to  Mammon. 


The  reader  will  please  to  advance  five  years.  Be 
fore  proceeding  thence  with  our  story,  however,  let 
us  take  a  Parthian  glance  at  the  overstepped  inter 
val.  Philip  Ballister  had  left  New  York  with  the 
triple  vow  that  he  would  enslave  every  faculty  of 
his  mind  and  body  to  business,  that  he  would  not 
return  till  he  had  made  a  fortune,  and  that  such 
interstices  as  might  occur  in  the  building  up  of 
this  chateau  for  felicity  should  be  filled  with  sweet 
reveries  about  Fanny  Bellairs.  The  forsworn 
painter  had  genius,  as  we  have  before  hinted,  and 
genius  is  (as  much  as  it  is  any  one  thing)  the 
power  of  concentration.  He  entered  upon  his 
duties,  accordingly  with  a  force  and  patience  of 
application  which  soon  made  him  master  of  what 
are  called  business  habits,  and,  once  in  possession 
of  the  details,  his  natural  cleverness  gave  him  a 
speedy  insight  to  all  the  scope  and  tactics  of  his 
particular  field  of  trade.  Under  his  guidance,  the 
affairs  of  the  house  were  soon  in  a  much  more 
prosperous  train,  and,  after  a  year's  residence  at 
Lyons,  Philip  saw  his  way  very  clear  to  manage 
them  with  a  long  arm  and  take  up  his  quarters  in 
Paris.  "  Les  fats  sont  les  scuh  homines  qui  aient  soin 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  67 

d'eux  memes"  says  a  French  novelist,  but  there  is  a 
period,  early  or  late,  in  the  lives  of  the  cleverest 
men,  when  they  become  suddenly  curious  as  to 
their  capacity  for  the  graces.  Paris,  to  a  stranger 
who  does  not  visit  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain, 
is  a  republic  of  personal  exterior,  where  the  de 
gree  of  privilege  depends,  with  Utopian  impar 
tiality,  on  the  style  of  the  outer  man  ;  and  Paris, 
therefore,  if  he  is  not  already  a  Bachelor  of  Arts 
(qu  ? — beau's  Arts),  usually  serves  the  traveller  as 
an  Alma  Mater  of  the  pomps  and  vanities. 

Phil.  Ballister,  up  to  the  time  of  his  matricula 
tion  in  Chaussee  d'Antin,  was  a  romantic-looking 
sloven.  From  this  to  a  very  dashing  coxcomb  is 
but  half  a  step,  and,  to  be  rid  of  the  coxcombry 
and  retain  a  look  of  fashion,  is  still  within  the  easy 
limits  of  imitation.  But — to  obtain  superiority  of 
presence,  with  no  apparent  aid  from  dress  and  no 
describable  manner,  and  to  display,  at  the  same 
time,  every  natural  advantage  in  effective  relief, 
and,  withal,  to  adapt  this  subtle  philtre,  not  only 
to  the  approbation  of  the  critical  and  censorious, 
but  to  the  taste  of  fair  women  gifted  with  judg 
ment  as  God  pleases — this  is  a  finish  not  born  with 
any  man  (though  unsuccessful  if  it  do  not  seem  to 
be),  and  never  reached  in  the  apprenticeship  of 
life,  and  never  reached  at  all  by  men  not  much 
above  their  fellows.  He  who  has  it,  has  "  bought 
his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his 
bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  behavior  everywhere," 
for  he  must  know,  as  a  chart  of  quicksands,  the 


68  TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

pronounced  models  of  other  nations  ;  but  to  be  a 
"  picked  man  of  countries,"  and  to  have  been  a  cox 
comb  and  a  man  of  fashion,  are,  as  a  painter  would 
say,  but  the  setting  of  the  palette  toward  the  mak 
ing  of  the  chef-d'ceuvre. 

Business  prospered,  and  the  facilities  of  leisure 
increased,  while  Ballister  passed  through  these 
transitions  of  taste,  and  he  found  intervals  to 
travel,  and  time  to  read,  and  opportunity  to  in 
dulge,  as  far  as  he  could  with  the  eye  only,  his  pas 
sion  for  knowledge  in  the  arts.  To  all  that  apper 
tained  to  the  refinement  of  himself,  he  applied  the 
fine  feelers  of  a  delicate  and  passionate  construc 
tion,  physical  and  mental,  and,  as  the  reader  will 
already  have  included,  wasted  on  culture  compara 
tively  unprofitable,  faculties  that  would  have  been 
better  employed  but  for  the  meddling  of  Miss 
Fanny  Bellairs. 


Ballister' s  return  from  France  was  heralded  by 
the  arrival  of  statuary  and  pictures,  books,  furni 
ture,  and  numberless  articles  of  tasteful  and  costly 
luxury.  The  reception  of  these  by  the  family  at 
home  threw  rather  a  new  light  on  the  probable 
changes  in  the  long-absent  brother,  for,  from  the 
signal  success  of  the  business  he  had  managed,  they 
had  very  naturally  supposed  that  it  was  the  result 
only  of  unreinitted  and  plodding  care.  Vague 
rumors  of  changes  in  his  personal  appearance  had 
reached  them,  such  as  might  be  expected  from  con- 


TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  69 

formity  to  foreign  fashions,  but  those  who  had  seen 
Philip  Ballister  in  France,  and  called  subsequently 
on  the  family  in  New  York,  were  not  people  qualified 
to  judge  of  the  man,  either  from  their  own  powers 
of  observation  or  from  any  confidence  he  was  likely 
to  put  forward  while  in  their  society.  His  letters 
had  been  delightful,  but  they  were  confined  to 
third-person  topics,  descriptions  of  things  likely  to 
interest  them,  etc.,  and  Fanny  had  few  addressed 
personally  to  herself,  having  thought  it  worth 
while,  for  the  experiment  sake,  or  for  some  other 
reason,  to  see  whether  love  would  subsist  without 
it  usual  pabulum  of  tender  correspondence,  and  a 
veto  on  love-letters  having  served  her  for  a  parting 
injunction  at  Phil's  embarkation  for  Havre. 
However  varied  by  their  different  fancies,  the 
transformation  looked  for  by  the  whole  family  was 
substantially  the  same — the  romantic  artist  sobered 
down  to  a  practical,  plain  man  of  business.  And 
Fanny  herself  had  an  occasional  misgiving  as  to 
her  relish  for  his  counting-house  virtues  and  man 
ners  ;  though,  on  the  detection  of  the  feeling,  she 
immediately  closed  her  eyes  upon  it,  and  drummed 
up  her  delinquent  constancy  for  "  parade  and  in 
spection." 

All  bustles  are  very  much  alike  (we  use  the  word 
as  defined  in  Johnson),  and  the  reader  will  appre 
ciate  our  delicacy,  besides,  in  not  intruding  on  the 
first  reunion  of  relatives  and  lovers  long  separated. 

The  morning  after  Philip  Ballister' s  arrival,  the 
family  sat  long  at  breakfast.  The  mother's  gaze 


70  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

fastened  untiringly  on  the  features  of  her  son — 
still  her  boy— prying  into  them  with  a  vain  effort 
to  reconcile  the  face  of  the  man  with  the  cherished 
picture  of  the  child  with  sunny  locks,  and  noting 
little  else  than  the  work  of  inward  change  upon 
the  countenance  and  expression.  The  brother, 
with  the  predominant  feeling  of  respect  for  the  in 
telligence  and  industry  of  one  who  had  made  the 
fortunes  of  the  house,  read  only  subdued  sagacity 
in  the  perfect  simplicity  of  his  whole  exterior. 
And  Fanny — Fanny  was  puzzled.  The  bourgeoisie 
and  ledger-bred  hardness  of  manner  which  she  had 
looked  for  were  not  there,  nor  any  variety  of  the 
"  foreign  slip-slop"  common  to  travelled  youth, 
nor  any  superciliousness,  nor  (faith  !)  any  wear 
and  tear  of  youth  and  good  looks — nothing  that 
she  expected  —  nothing  !  Not  even  a  French 
guard-chain  ! 

What  there  was  in  her  cousin's  manners  and  ex 
terior,  however,  was  much  more  difficult  to  define 
by  Miss  Bellairs  than  what  there  was  not.  She 
began  the  renewal  of  their  intercourse  with  very 
high  spirits,  herself — the  simple  nature  and  unpre- 
tendingness  of  his  address  awakening  only  an  un 
embarrassed  pleasure  at  seeing  him  again — but  she 
soon  began  to  suspect  there  was  an  exquisite  re 
finement  in  this  very  simplicity,  and  to  wonder 
"at  the  trick  of  it;"  and,  after  the  first  day 
passed  in  his  society,  her  heart  beat  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  as  it  did  not  use  to  beat  when  she 
was  sitting  to  him  for  her  picture,  and  listening  to 


TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  71 

his  passionate  love-making.  And,  with  all  her  fac 
ulties,  she  studied  him.  What  was  the  charm  of 
his  presence  ?  He  was  himself,  and  himself  only. 
He  seemed  perfect,  but  he  seemed  to  have  arrived 
at  perfection  like  a  statue,  not  like  a  picture — by 
what  had  been  taken  away,  not  by  what  had  been 
laid  on.  He  was  as  natural  as  a  bird,  and  as  grace 
ful  and  unembarrassed.  He  neither  forced  conver 
sation,  nor  pressed  the  little  attentions  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  his  attitudes  were  full  of  re 
pose  ;  yet  she  was  completely  absorbed  in  what  he 
said,  and  she  had  been  impressed  imperceptibly 
with  his  high-bred  politeness,  and  the  singular 
elegance  of  his  person.  Fanny  felt  there  was  a 
change  in  her  relative  position  to  her  cousin.  In 
what  it  consisted,  or  which  had  the  advantage,  she 
was  perplexed  to  discover — but  she  bit  her  lips  as 
she  caught  herself  thinking  that  if  she  were  not 
engaged  to  marry  Philip  Ballister,  she  should  sus 
pect  that  she  had  just  fallen  irrecoverably  in  love 
with  him. 

It  would  have  been  a  novelty  in  the  history  of 
Miss  Bellairs  that  any  event  to  which  she  had  once 
consented,  should  admit  of  reconsideration  ;  and 
the  Ballister  family,  used  to  her  strong  will,  were 
confirmed  fatalists  as  to  the  coming  about  of  her 
ends  and  aims.  Her  marriage  with  Philip,  there 
fore,  was  discussed,  cmtr  ouvert,  from  his  first  ar 
rival,  and,  indeed,  in  her  usual  fashion  of  saving 
others  the  trouble  of  making  up  their  minds,  "  her 
self  had  named  the  day/'  This,  it  is  true,  was 


72  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

before  his  landing,  and  was,  then,  an  effort  of  con 
siderable  magnanimity,  as  the  expectant  Penelope 
was  not  yet  advised  of  her  lover's  state  of  preser 
vation  or  damages  by  cares  and  keeping.  If  Philip 
had  not  found  his  wedding-day  fixed  on  his  ar 
rival,  however,  he  probably  would  have  had  a 
voice  in  the  naming  of  it,  for,  with  Fanny's  new 
inspirations  as  to  his  character,  there  had  grown 
up  a  new  flower  in  her  garden  of  beauties — timid 
ity  !  What  bird  of  the  air  had  sown  the  seed  in 
such  a  soil  was  a  problem  to  herself — but  true  it 
was  ! — the  confident  belle  had  grown  a  blushing 
trembler  !  She  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  be 
speaking  her  wings  for  the  sky,  as  to  have  ventured 
on  naming  the  day  in  a  short  week  after. 

The  day  was  named,  however,  and  the  prepara 
tions  went  on — nem.  con. — the  person  most  inter 
ested  (after  herself)  accepting  every  congratulation 
and  allusion,  touching  the  event,  with  the  most 
impenetrable  suavity.  The  marbles  and  pictures, 
upholstery  and  services,  were  delivered  over  to  the 
order  of  Miss  Bellairs,  and  Philip,  disposed,  appar 
ently,  to  be  very  much  a  recluse  in  his  rooms,  or, 
at  other  times,  engrossed  by  troops  of  welcoming 
friends,  saw  much  less  of  his  bride  elect  than  suited 
her  wishes,  and  saw  her  seldom  alone.  By  particu 
lar  request,  also,  he  took  no  part  in  the  plenishing 
and  embellishing  of  the  new  abode — not  permitted 
even  to  inquire  where  it  was  situated  ;  and,  under 
this  cover,  besides  the  pleasure  of  having  her  own 
way,  Fanny  concealed  a  little  secret,  which,  when 


TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  73 

disclosed,  she  now  felt,  would  figure  forth  Philip's 
comprehension,  her  whole  scheme  of  future  happi 
ness.  She  had  taken  the  elder  brother  into  her 
counsels  a  fortnight  after  Philip's  return,  and, 
with  his  aid  and  consent,  had  abandoned  the  origi 
nal  idea  of  a  house  in  town,  purchased  a  beautifully- 
secluded  estate  and  cottage  ornee,  on  the  East  River, 
and  transferred  thither  all  the  objects  of  art,  furni 
ture,  etc.  One  room  only  of  the  maternal  mansion 
was  permitted  to  contribute  its  quota  to  the  com 
pletion  of  the  bridal  dwelling — the  wing,  never  since 
inhabited,  in  which  Philip  had  made  his  essay  as  a 
painter — and,  without  variation  of  a  cobweb,  and, 
with  whimsical  care  and  effort  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Fanny,  this  apartment  was  reproduced  at  Revedere 
— her  own  picture  on  the  easel,  as  it  stood  on  the 
night  of  his  abandonment  of  his  art,  and  palette, 
pencils  and  colors  in  tempting  readiness  on  the 
table.  Even  the  fire-grate  of  the  old  studio  had 
been  re-set  in  the  new,  and  the  cottage  throughout 
had  been  refitted  with  a  view  to  occupation  in  the 
winter.  And  to  sundry  hints  on  the  part  of  the 
elder  brother,  that  some  thought  should  be  given 
to  a  city  residence— for  the  Christmas  holidays  at 
least — Fanny  replied,  through  a  blush,  that  she 
would  never  wish  to  see  the  town — with  Philip  at 
Revedere  ! 

Five  years  had  ripened  and  mellowed  the  beauty 
of  Fanny  Bellairs,  and  the  same  summer-time  of 
youth  had  turned  into  fruit  the  feeling  left  by 
Philip  in  bud  and  flower.  She  was  ready  now  for 


74  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

love.  She  had  felt  the  variable  temper  of  society, 
and  there  was  a  presentiment  in  the  heart,  of  re 
ceding  flatteries  and  the  winter  of  life.  It  was 
with  mournful  self-reproach  that  she  thought  of  the 
years  wasted  in  separation,  of  her  own  choosing, 
from  the  man  she  loved  ;  and,  with  the  power  to 
recall  time,  she  would  have  thanked  God  with 
tears  of  joy  for  the  privilege  of  retracing  the  chain 
of  life  to  that  link  of  parting.  Not  worth  a  day  of 
those  lost  years,  she  bitterly  confessed  to  herself, 
was  the  wealth  they  had  purchased. 

It  lacked  as  little  as  one  week  of  "  the  happy 
day,"  when  the  workmen  were  withdrawn  from 
Revedere,  and  the  preparations  for  a  family  break 
fast,  to  be  succeeded  by  the  agreeable  surprise  to 
Philip  of  informing  him  he  was  at  home,  were 
finally  completed.  One  or  two  very  intimate 
friends  were  added  to  the  party,  and  the  invitations 
(from  the  elder  Ballister)  proposed  simply  a  dejeuner 
sur  r herbe  in  the  grounds  of  an  unoccupied  villa, 
the  property  of  an  acquaintance. 

With  the  subsiding  of  the  excitement  of  return, 
the  early  associations  which  had  temporarily  con 
fused  and  colored  the  feelings  of  Philip  Ballister 
settled  gradually  away,  leaving  uppermost  once 
more  the  fastidious  refinement  of  the  Parisian. 
Through  this  medium,  thin  and  cold,  the  bubbles 
from  the  breathing  of  the  heart  of  youth,  rose 
rarely  and  reluctantly.  The  Ballisters  held  a  good 
station  in  society,  without  caring  for  much  beyond 
the  easy  conveniences  of  life,  and  Fanny,  though 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  75 

capable  of  any  degree  of  elegance,  had  not  seen 
the  expediency  of  raising  the  tone  of  her  manners 
above  that  of  her  immediate  friends.  Without 
being  positively  distasteful  to  Philip,  the  family 
circle,  Fanny  included,  left  him  much  to  desire  in 
the  way  of  society,  and,  unwilling  to  abate  the 
warmth  of  his  attentions  while  with  them,  he  had 
latterly  pleaded  occupation  more  frequently,  and 
passed  his  time  in  the  more  congenial  company  of 
his  library  of  art.  This  was  the  less  noticed  that  it 
gave  Miss  Bellairs  the  opportunity  to  make  fre 
quent  visits  to  the  workmen  at  Revedere,  and,  in 
the  polished  devotion  of  her  betrothed  when  with 
her,  Fanny  saw  nothing  reflected  but  her  own  daily 
increasing  tenderness  and  admiration. 

The  morning  of  the/<&?  came  in  like  the  air  in  an 
overture — a  harmony  of  all  the  instruments  of 
summer.  The  party  were  at  the  gate  of  Revedere 
by  ten,  and  the  drive  through  the  avenue  to  the 
lawn  drew  a  burst  of  delighted  admiration  from 
all.  The  place  was  exquisite,  and  seen  in  its 
glory,  and  Fanny's  heart  was  brimming  with 
gratified  pride  and  exultation.  She  assumed  at 
once  the  dispensation  of  the  honors,  and  beautiful 
she  looked  with  her  snowy  dress  and  raven  ring 
lets  flitting  across  the  lawn,  and  queening  it  like 
Perdita  among  the  flowers.  Having  narrowly 
escaped  bursting  into  tears  of  joy  when  Philip  pro 
nounced  the  place  prettier  than  anything  he  had 
seen  in  his  travels,  she  was,  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
calmly  happy  ;  and,  with  the  grateful  shade,  the 


76  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

delicious  breakfast  in  the  grove,  the  rambling  and 
boating  on  the  river,  the  hours  passed  off  like 
dreams,  and  no  one  even  hinted  a  regret  that  the 
house  itself  was  under  lock  and  bar.  And  so  the 
sun  set,  and  the  twilight  came  on,  and  the  guests 
were  permitted  to  order  round  their  carriages  and 
depart,  the  Ballisters  accompanying  them  to  the 
gate.  And,  on  the  return  of  the  family  through 
the  avenue,  excuses  were  made  for  idling  hither 
and  thither,  till  light  began  to  show  through  the 
trees,  and,  by  the  time  of  their  arrival  at  the  lawn, 
the  low  windows  of  the  cottage  poured  forth 
streams  of  light,  and  the  open  doors,  and  servants 
busy  within,  completed  a  scene  more  like  magic 
than  reality.  Philip  was  led  in  by  the  excited  girl 
who  was  the  fairy  of  the  spell,  and  his  astonish 
ment  at  the  discovery  of  his  statuary  and  pictures, 
books  and  furniture,  arranged  in  complete  order 
within,  was  fed  upon  with  the  passionate  delight 
of  love  in  authority. 

When  an  hour  had  been  spent  in  examining  and 
admiring  the  different  apartments,  an  inner  room 
was  thrown  open,  in  which  supper  was  prepared, 
and  this  fourth  act  in  the  day's  drama  was  lingered 
over  in  untiring  happiness  by  the  family. 

Mrs.  Ballister,  the  mother,  rose  and  retired,  and 
Philip  pleaded  indisposition,  and  begged  to  be 
shown  to  the  room  allotted  to  him.  This  was  ring- 
ing-up  the  curtain  for  the  last  act  sooner  than  had 
been  planned  by  Fanny,  but  she  announced  herself 
as  his  chamberlain,  and,  with  her  hands  affection- 


TWO  BUCKETS  IX  A    WELL.  77 

ately  crossed  on  his  arm,  led  him  to  a  suite  of 
rooms  in  a  wing  still  unvisited,  and,  with  a  good 
night  kiss,  left  him  at  the  open  door  of  the  revived 
studio,  furnished  for  the  night  with  a  bachelor's 
bed.  Turning  upon  the  threshold,  he  closed  the 
door  with  a  parting  wish  of  sweet  dreams,  and 
Fanny,  after  listening  a  moment  with  a  vain  hope 
of  overhearing  some  expression  of  pleasure,  and 
lingering  again  on  her  way  back,  to  be  overtaken 
by  her  surprised  lover,  sought  her  own  bed  with 
out  rejoining  the  circle,  and  passed  a  sleepless  and 
happy  night  of  tears  and  joy. 

Breakfast  was  served  the  next  morning  on  a  ter 
race  overlooking  the  river,  and  it  was  voted  by  ac 
clamation  that  Fanny  never  before  looked  so 
lovely.  As  none  but  the  family  were  to  be  present, 
she  had  stolen  a  march  on  her  marriage  wardrobe, 
and  added  to  her  demi-toilet  a  morning  cap  of  ex 
quisite  becomingness.  Altogether  she  looked  de- 
liciously  wife-like,  and  did  the  honors  of  the  break 
fast-table  with  a  grace  and  sweetness  that  warmed 
out  love  and  compliments  even  from  the  sober  soil 
of  household  intimacy.  Philip  had  not  yet  made 
his  appearance,  and  they  lingered  long  at  table, 
till  at  last,  a  suggestion  that  he  might  be  ill  start 
ed  Fanny  to  her  feet,  and  she  ran  to  his  door  be 
fore  a  servant  could  be  summoned. 

The  rooms  were  open,  and  the  bed  had  not  been 
occupied.  The  candle  was  burned  to  the  socket, 
and  on  the  easel,  resting  against  the  picture,  was  a 
letter  addressed — "  Miss  Fanny  Bellairs." 


73  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 


THE    LETTER. 

"  I  have  followed  up  to  this  hour,  my  fair  cousin, 
in  the  path  you  have 'marked  out  for  me.  It  has 
brought  me  back,  in  this  chamber,  to  the  point 
from  which  I  started  under  your  guidance,  and  if 
it  had  brought  me  back  unchanged  —  if  it  re 
stored  me  my  energy,  my  hope,  and  my  prospect 
of  fame,  I  should  pray  Heaven  that  it  would  also 
give  me  back  my  love,  and  be  content — more  than 
content,  if  it  gave  me  back  also  my  poverty.  The 
sight  of  my  easel,  and  of  the  surroundings  of  my 
boyish  dreams  of  glory,  have  made  my  heart  bitter. 
They  have  given  form  and  voice  to  a  vague  unhap- 
piness,  which  has  haunted  me  through  all  these 
absent  years — years  of  degrading  pursuits  and 
wasted  powers — and  it  now  impels  me  from  you, 
kind  and  lovely  as  you  are,  with  an  aversion  I  can 
not  control.  I  cannot  forgive  you.  You  have 
thwarted  my  destiny.  You  have  extinguished  with 
sordid  cares  a  lamp  within  me,  that  might,  by  this 
time,  have  shone  through  the  world.  And  what 
am  I,  since  your  wishes  are  accomplished  ?  En 
riched  in  pocket,  and  bankrupt  in  happiness  and 
self-respect. 

"  With  a  heart  sick,  and  a  brain  aching  for  dis 
tinction,  I  have  come  to  an  unhonored  stand-still 
at  thirty  !  I  am  a  successful  tradesman,  and  in 
this  character  I  shall  probably  die.  Could  I  begin 
to  be  a  painter  now,  say  you  ?  Alas  !  my  knowl- 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  79 

edge  of  the  art  is  too  great  for  patience  with  the 
slow  hand  !  I  could  not  draw  a  line  without  de 
spair.  The  pliant  fingers  and  the  plastic  mind 
must  keep  pace  to  make  progress  in  art.  My  taste 
is  fixed,  and  my  imagination  uncreative,  because 
chained  down  by  certainties  ;  and  the  shortsighted 
ardor  and  daring  experiments  which  are  indispen 
sable  to  sustain  and  advance  the  follower  in  Raph 
ael's  footsteps,  are  too  far  behind  for  my  resum 
ing.  The  tide  ebbed  from  me  at  the  accursed 
burning  of  my  pencils  by  your  pitiless  hand,  and 
from  that  hour  I  have  felt  hope  receding.  Could 
I  be  happy  with  you,  stranded  here  in  ignoble  idle 
ness,  and  owing  to  you  the  loss  of  my  whole  vent 
ure  of  opportunity  ?  No,  Fanny  ? — surely  no  ! 

"  I  would  not  be  unnecessarily  harsh.  I  am  sen 
sible  of  your  affection  and  constancy.  I  have  de 
ferred  this  explanation  unwisely,  till  the  time  and 
place  make  it  seem  more  cruel.  You  are  at  this 
very  moment,  I  well  know,  awake  in  your  cham 
ber,  devoting  to  me  the  vigils  of  a  heart  overflow 
ing  with  tenderness.  And  I  would — if  it  were  pos 
sible — if  it  were  not  utterly  beyond  my  powers  of 
self-sacrifice  and  concealment — I  would  affect  a 
devotion  I  cannot  feel,  and  carry  out  this  error 
through  a  life  of  artifice  and  monotony.  But  here, 
again,  the  work  is  your  own,  and  my  feelings  re 
vert  bitterly  to  your  interference.  If  there  were  no 
other  obstacle  to  my  marrying  you — if  you  were 
not  associated  repulsively  with  the  dark  cloud  on 
my  life,  you  are  not  the  woman  I  could  now  en- 


80  TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

throne  in  my  bosom.  We  have  diverged  since  the 
separation  which  I  pleaded  against,  and  which  you 
commanded.  I  need  for  my  idolatry,  now,  a  creat 
ure  to  whom  the  sordid  cares  you  have  sacrificed 
me  to,  are  utterly  unknown — a  woman  born  and 
educated  in  circumstances  where  want  is  never 
feared,  and  where  calculation  never  enters.  I 
must  lavish  my  wealth,  if  I  fulfil  my  desire,  on 
one  who  accepts  it  like  the  air  she  breathes,  and 
who  knows  the  value  of  nothing  but  love — a  bird 
with  a  human  soul  and  form,  believing  herself  free 
of  all  the  world  is  rich  in,  and  careful  only  for 
pleasure  and  the  happiness  of  those  who  belong  to 
her.  Such  women,  beautiful  and  highly  educated, 
are  found  only  in  ranks  of  society  between  which 
and  my  own  I  have  been  increasing  in  distance — 
nay,  building  an  impassable  barrier,  in  obedience 
to  your  control.  Where  I  stop,  interdicted  by  the 
stain  of  trade,  the  successful  artist  is  free  to  enter. 
You  have  stamped  me  plebeian — you  would  not 
share  my  slow  progress  toward  a  higher  sphere, 
and  you  have  disqualified  me  for  attaining  it 
alone.  In  your  mercenary  and  immovable  will, 
and  in  that  only,  lies  the  secret  of  our  twofold 
unhappiness. 

"  I  leave  you,  to  return  to  Europe.  My  brother 
and  my  friends  will  tell  you  I  am  mad  and  inex 
cusable,  and  look  upon  you  as  a  victim.  They  will 
say  that,  to  have  been  a  painter,  were  nothing  to 
the  career  that  I  might  mark  out  for  my  ambition, 
if  ambition  I  must  have,  in  politics.  Politics  in  a 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL.  Si 

country  where  distinction  is  a  pillory  !  But  I 
could  not  live  here.  It  is  my  misfortune  that  my 
tastes  are  so  modified  by  that  long  and  compul 
sory  exile,  that  life,  here,  would  be  a  perpetual 
penance.  This  unmixed  air  of  merchandise  suffo 
cates  me.  Our  own  home  is  tinctured  black  with 
it.  You  yourself,  in  this  rural  Paradise  you  have 
conjured  up,  move  in  it  like  a  cloud.  The  count 
ing-house  rings  in  your  voice,  calculation  draws 
together  your  brows,  you  look  on  everything  as 
a  means,  and  know  its  cost  ;  and  the  calm  and 
means-forgetting  fruition,  which  forms  the  charm 
and  dignity  of  superior  life,  is  utterly  unknown  to 
you.  What  would  be  my  happiness  with  such  a 
wife  ?  What  would  be  yours  with  such  a  husband  ? 
Yet  I  consider  the  incompatibility  between  us  as 
no  advantage  on  my  part — on  the  contrary,  a  pun 
ishment,  and  of  your  inflicting.  What  shall  I  be, 
anywhere,  but  a  Tantalus  —  a  fastidious  ennuye, 
with  a  thirst  for  the  inaccessible  burning  in  my 
bosom  continually  ! 

"  I  pray  you  let  us  avoid  another  meeting  before 
my  departure.  Though  I  cannot  forgive  you  as  a 
lover,  I  can  think  of  you  with  pleasure  as  a  cousin, 
and  I  give  you  as  your  due  ('  damages,'  the  law 
would  phrase  it,)  the  portion  of  myself  which  you 
thought  most  important  when  I  offered  you  my 
all.  You  would  not  take  me  without  the  fortune, 
but  perhaps  you  will  be  content  with  the  fortune 
without  me.  I  shall  immediately  take  steps  to 


82  TWO   BUCKETS  IN  A    WELL. 

convey  to  you  this  property  of  Revedere,  with  an 
income  sufficient  to  maintain  it,  and  I  trust  soon 
to  hear  that  you  have  found  a  husband  better 
worthy  of  you  than  your  cousin  — 

"  PHILIP  BALLISTER." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

BY  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE. 


IT  had  been  "  borne  in"  upon  him,  more  or  less, 
during  the  long  winter  ;  it  had  not  relaxed  its 
hold  when  the  frosts  unlocked  and  the  streams 
were  set  free  from  their  long  winter's  silence  among 
the  hills.  He  grew  restless  and  abstracted  under 
"  the  turnings  of  the  Lord's  hand  upon  him,"  and 
his  speech  unconsciously  shaped  itself  into  the 
Biblical  cadences  which  came  to  him  in  his  mo 
ments  of  spiritual  exercise. 

The  bedrabbled  snows  of  March  shrank  away 
before  the  keen,  quickening  sunbeams  ;  the  hills 
emerged,  brown  and  sodden,  like  the  chrysalis  of 
the  new  year.  The  streams  woke  in  a  tumult,  and 
all  day  and  night  their  voices  called  from  the  hills 
back  of  the  mill.  The  waste-weir  was  a  foaming 
torrent,  and  spread  itself  in  muddy  shallows  across 
the  meadow  beyond  the  old  garden  where  the  rob- 

•*»  Scribners  Magazine,  July^   1879. 


84  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN-. 

ins  and  blue  birds  were  house-hunting.  Friend 
Barton's  trouble  stirred  with  the  life-blood  of  the 
year,  and  pressed  upon  him  sorely  ;  but  as  yet  he 
gave  it  no  words.  He  plodded  about  among  his 
lean  kine,  tempering  the  winds  of  March  to  his  un 
timely  lambs,  and  reconciling  unnatural  ewes  to 
their  maternal  duties. 

Friend  Barton  had  never  heard  of  the  doctrine 
of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  ;  though  it  was  the 
spring  of  1812,  and  England  and  America  were 
investigating  the  subject  on  the  seas,  while  the 
nations  of  Europe  were  practically  illustrating  it. 
The  "hospital  tent,"  as  the  boys  called  an  old 
corn-basket,  covered  with  carpet,  which  stood  be 
side  the  kitchen  chimney,  was  seldom  without  an 
occupant, — a  brood  of  chilled  chickens,  a  weakly 
lamb,  or  a  wee  pig  (with  too  much  blue  in  its  pink- 
ness),  which  had  been  left  behind  by  its  stouter 
brethren  in  the  race  for  existence.  The  old  mill 
hummed  away  through  the  day,  and  often  late  in 
the  evening  if  time  pressed,  upon  the  grists  which 
added  a  thin,  intermittent  stream  of  tribute  to  the 
family  income.  Whenever  work  was  "  slack," 
Friend  Barton  was  sawing  or  chopping  in  the 
wood-shed  adjoining  the  kitchen  ;  every  moment 
he  could  seize  or  make  he  was  there,  stooping  over 
the  rapidly  growing  pile. 

"  Seems  to  me,  father,  thee's  in  a  great  hurry 
with  the  wood  this  spring.  I  don't  know  when 
we've  had  such  a  pile  ahead." 

"  'Twon't  burn  up  any  faster  for  being  chopped," 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  85 

Friend  Barton  said  ;  and  then  his  wife  Rachel  knew 
that  if  he  had  a  reason  for  being  "forehanded" 
with  the  wood,  he  was  not  ready  to  give  it. 

One  rainy  April  afternoon,  when  the  smoky  gray 
distances  began  to  take  a  tinge  of  green,  and 
through  the  drip  and  rustle  of  the  rain  the  call  of 
the  robins  sounded,  Friend  Barton  sat  in  the  door 
of  the  barn,  oiling  the  road-harness.  The  old 
chaise  had  been  wheeled  out  and  greased,  and  its 
cushions  beaten  and  dusted. 

An  ox-team  with  a  load  of  grain  creaked  up  the 
hill  and  stopped  at  the  mill  door.  The  driver,  see 
ing  Friend  Barton's  broad-brimmed  drab  felt  hat 
against  the  dark  interior  of  the  barn,  came  down 
the  short  lane  leading  from  the  mill  past  the  house 
and  farm-buildings. 

"  Fixin'  up  for  travelling  Uncle  Tommy  ?" 

Vain  compliments  were  unacceptable  to  Thomas 
Barton,  and  he  was  generally  known  and  addressed 
as  "Uncle  Tommy"  by  the  world's  people  of  a 
younger  generation. 

"  It  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  to  direct  his  own 
steps,  neighbor  Gordon.  I  am  getting  myself  in 
readiness  to  obey  the  Lord,  whichever  way  He 
calls  me." 

Farmer  Gordon  cast  a  shrewd  eye  over  the  prem 
ises.  They  wore  that  patient,  sad,  exhumed  look 
which  old  farm-buildings  are  apt  to  have  in  early 
spring.  The  roofs  were,  black  with  rain,  arid 
brightened  with  patches  of  green  moss.  Farm 
er  Gordon  instinctively  calculated  how  many 


86  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  bunches  o'  shingle"  would-  be  required  to  rescue 
them  from  the  decline  into  which  they  had  fallen, 
in  spite  of  the  hectic  green  spots. 

"  Wai,  the  Lord  calls  most  of  us  to  stay  at  home 
and  look  after  things,  such  weather  as  this.  Good 
plantin'  weather  ;  good  weather  for  breakin' 
ground  ;  fust-rate  weather  for  millin'  !  This  is  a 
reg'lar  miller's  rain,  Uncle  Tommy.  You  ought 
to  be  takin'  advantage  of  it.  I've  got  a  grist  back 
here  ;  wish  ye  could  manage  to  let  me  have  it  when 
I  come  back  from  store." 

The  grist  was  ground  and  delivered  before  Friend 
Barton  went  in  to  his  supper  that  night.  Dorothy 
Barton  had  been  mixing  bread,  and  was  wiping  her 
white  arms  and  hands  on  the  roller  towel  by  the 
kitchen  door,  as  her  father  stamped  and  scraped 
his  feet  on  the  stones  outside. 

"  I  do  believe  I  forgot  to  toll  neighbor  Gordon's 
rye,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  a  final  rub  on  the  broom 
Dorothy  handed  out  to  him.  "  It's  wonderful  how 
careless  I  get  !" 

"  Well,  father,  I  don't  suppose  thee'd  ever  for 
get,  and  toll  a  grist  twice  !" 

"  I  believe  I've  been  mostly  preserved  from  mis 
takes  of  that  kind,"  said  Friend  Barton  gently. 
'*•  It  may  have  been  the  Lord  who  stayed  my  hand 
from  gathering  profit  unto  myself  while  his  lambs 
go  unfed." 

Dorothy  put  her  hands  on  her  father's  shoulders. 
She  was  almost  as  tall  as  he,  and  could  look  into 
his  patient,  troubled  eyes. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  87 

"  Father,  I  know  what  thee  is  thinking  of  ;  but 
do  think  long.  It  will  be  a  hard  year  ;  the  boys 
ought  to  go  to  school  ;  and  mother  is  so  feeble." 

Friend  Barton's  "  concern"  kept  him  awake  long 
that  night.  His  wife  watched  by  his  side,  giving 
no  sign,  lest  her  wakeful  presence  should  disturb 
his  silent  wrestlings.  The  tall,  cherry-wood  clock 
in  the  entry  measured  the  hours  as  they  passed 
with  its  slow,  dispassionate  tick. 

At  two  o'clock  Rachel  Barton  was  awakened 
from  her  first  sleep  of  weariness  by  her  husband's 
voice  whispering  heavily  in  the  darkness. 

"  My  way  is  hedged  up  !  I  see  no  way  to  go 
forward.  Lord,  strengthen  my  patience,  that  I 
murmur  not,  after  all  I  have  seen  of  Thy  goodness. 
I  find  daily  bread  is  very  desirable  ;  want  and 
necessity  are  painful  to  nature  ;  but  shall  I  follow 
Thee  for  the  sake  of  the  loaves,  or  will  it  do  to  for 
sake  Thee  in  times  of  emptiness  and  abasement  ?" 

There  was  silence  again,  and  restless  tossings 
and  sighings  continued  the  struggle. 

"  Thomas,"  the  wife's  voice  spoke  tremulously 
in  the  darkness,  "  my  dear  husband,  I  know  where 
thy  thoughts  are  tending.  If  the  Spirit  is  with 
thee,  do  not  deny  it  for  our  sakes,  I  pray  thee. 
The  Lord  did  not  give  thee  thy  wife  and  children 
to  hang  as  a  millstone  round  thy  neck.  I  am  thy 
helpmeet,  to  strengthen  thee  in  his  service.  I  am 
thankful  that  I  have  my  health  this  spring  better 
than  usual,  and  Dorothy  is  a  wonderful  help.  Her 
spirit  was  sent  to  sustain  me  in  thy  long  absences. 


88  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

Go,  dear,  and  serve  our  Master,  who  has  called 
thee  in  these  bitter  strivings  !  Dorothy  and  I  will 
keep  things  together  as  well  as  we  can.  The  way 
will  open — never  fear!"  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  his  face  in  the  darkness  ;  there  were 
tears  on  the  furrowed  cheeks.  "  Try  to  sleep, 
dear,  and  let  thy  spirit  have  rest.  There  is  but 
one  answer  to  this  call." 

With  the  first  drowsy  twitterings  of  the  birds, 
when  the  crescent-shaped  openings  in  the  board 
shutters  began  to  define  themselves  clearly  in  the 
shadowy  room,  they  arose  and  went  about  their 
morning  tasks  in  silence.  Friend  Barton's  step 
was  a  little  heavier  than  usual,  and  the  hollows 
round  his  wife's  pale  brown  eyes  were  a  little 
deeper.  As  he  sat  on  the  splint-bottomed  chair  by 
the  kitchen  fireplace,  drawing  on  his  boots,  she 
laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  her  cheek  on 
the  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

;<  Thee  will  lay  this  concern  before  meeting  to 
morrow,  father  ?" 

"  I  had  it  on  my  mind  to  do  so, — if  my  light  be 
not  quenched  before  then." 

Friend  Barton's  light  was  not  quenched.  Words 
came  to  him  without  seeking,  in  which  to  "  open 
the  concern  which  had  ripened  in  his  mind,"  of  a 
religious  visit  to  the  meeting  constituting  the 
yearly  meetings  of  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore. 
A  "  minute"  was  given  him  encouraging  him  in 
the  name  of,  and  with  the  full  concurrence  of,  the 
monthly  meetings  of  Nine  Partners,  and  Stony 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  89 

Valley,  to  go  wherever  the  Truth  might  lead  him. 
While  Friend  Barton  was  thus  freshly  anointed, 
and  "  abundantly  encouraged,"  his  wife,  Rachel, 
was  talking  with  Dorothy  in  the  low  upper  cham 
ber,  known  as  the  "  wheel-room." 

Dorothy  was  spinning  wool  on  the  big  wheel, 
dressed  in  her  light  calico  short-gown  and  brown 
quilted  petticoat  ;  her  arms  were  bare,  and  her  hair 
was  gathered  away  from  her  flushed  cheeks  and 
knotted  behind  her  ears.  The  roof  sloped  down 
on  one  side,  and  the  light  came  from  a  long  low 
window  under  the  eavest  There  was  another  win 
dow  (shaped  like  a  half  moon  high  up  in  the  peak), 
but  it  sent  down  only  one  long  beam  of  sunlight, 
which  glimmered  across  the  dust  and  fell  upon 
Dorothy's  white  neck. 

The  wheel  was  humming  a  quick  measure,  and 
Dorothy  trod  lightly  back  and  forth,  the  wheel- 
pin  in  one  hand,  the  other  upraised  holding  the 
tense,  lengthening  thread,  which  the  spindle  de 
voured  again. 

"  Dorothy,  thee  looks  warm  : — can't  thee  sit 
down  a  moment,  while  I  talk  to  thee  ?" 

"  Is  it  anything  important,  mother?  I  want  to 
get  my  twenty  knots  before  dinner."  She  paused 
as  she  joined  a  long  tress  of  wool  at  the  spindle. 
"  Is  it  anything  about  father?" 

"  Yes,  it's  about  father,  and  all  of  us." 

"  I  know,"  said  Dorothy,  stretching  herself  back 
with  a  sigh.  "  He's  going  away  again  !" 

"  Yes,  dear.     He  feels  that  he  is  called.     It  is  a 


90  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

time  of  trouble  and  contention  everywhere, — '  the 
harvest  truly  is  plenteous,  but  the  laborers  are 
few.'  " 

"  There  are  not  so  many  '  laborers  *  here,  mother, 
though  to  be  sure,  the  harvest — " 

"  Dorothy,  my  daughter  !  don't  let  a  spirit  of 
levity  creep  into  thy  speech.  Thy  father  has 
striven  and  wrestled  with  his  urgings.  I've  seen  it 
working  on  him  all  winter  ;  he  feels  now  it  is  the 
Lord's  will." 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  can  be  so  sure,"  said 
Dorothy,  swaying  gloomily  to  and  fro  against  the 
wheel.  "  I  don't  care  for  myself, — I'm  not  afraid 
of  work, — but  thee' s  not  able  to  do  what  thee  does 
now,  mother.  If  I  have  outside  things  to  look 
after,  how  can  I  help  thee  as  I  should  ?  The  boys 
are  about  as  much  dependence  as  a  flock  of  barn 
swallows  !" 

"  Don't  fret  about  me,  dear  ;  the  way  will  open. 
Thy  father  has  thought  and  planned  for  us  ;  have 
patience  while  I  tell  thee.  Thee  knows  Walter 
Evesham's  pond  is  small  and  his  mill  is  doing  a 
thriving  business  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it!"  Dorothy  exclaimed.  "He 
has  his  own  share,  and  ours  too — most  of  it  !" 

"  Wait,  dear,  wait  !  Thy  father  has  rented  him 
the  ponds  to  use  when  his  own  gives  out.  He  is  to 
have  the  control  of  the  water,  and  it  will  give  us  a 
little  income,  even  though  the  old  mill  does  stand 
idle." 

"  He  may  as  well  take  the  mill,  too.     If  father  is 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  91 

away  all  summer  it  will  be  useless  ever  to  start  it 
again.  Thee'll  see,  mother,  how  it  will  end  if 
Walter  Evesham  has  the  custom  and  the  water  all 
summer.  I  think  it's  miserable  for  a  young  man 
to  be  so  keen  about  money/' 

"  Dorothy,  seems  to  me  thee's  hasty  in  thy  judg 
ments.  I  never  heard  that  said  of  Walter  Eve- 
sham.  His  father  left  him  with  capital  to  improve 
his  mill.  It  does  better  work  than  ours  ;  we  can't 
complain  of  that.  Thy  father  was  never  one  to 
study  much  after  ways  of  making  money.  He  felt 
he  had  no  right  to  more  than  an  honest  livelihood. 
I  don't  say  that  Walter  Evesham 's  in  the  wrong. 
We  know  that  Joseph  took  advantage  of  his  oppor 
tunities,  though  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  felt  much 
unity  with  some  of  his  transactions.  What  would 
thee  have,  my  dear?  Thee's  discouraged  with 
thy  father  for  choosing  the  thorny  way,  which  we 
tread  with  him  ;  but  thee  seems  no  better  satisfied 
with  one  who  considers  the  flesh  and  its  wants  !" 

"  I  don't  know^  mother,  what  I  want  for  myself. 
It  doesn't  matter,  but  for  thee  I  would  have  rest 
from  all  these  cruel  worries  thee  has  borne  so 
long." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap  and  put 
her  strong  young  arms  about  the  frail,  toil-bent 
form. 

"  There,  there,  dear.  Try  to  rule  thy  spirit, 
Dorothy.  Thee's  too  much  worked  up  about  this. 
They  are  not  worries  to  me.  I  am  thankful  we 
have  nothing  to  decide,  one  way  or  the  other — only 


92  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

to  do  our  best  with  what  is  given  us.  Thee's  not 
thyself,  dear.  Go  down-stairs  and  fetch  in  the 
clothes,  and  don't  hurry  ;  stay  out  till  thee  gets 
more  composed." 

Dorothy  did  not  succeed  in  bringing  herself  into 
unity  with  her  father's  call,  but  she  came  to  a  fuller 
realization  of  his  struggle.  When  he  bade  them 
good-by,  his  face  showed  what  it  had  cost  him, 
but  Rachel  was  calm  and  cheerful.  The  pain  of 
parting  is  keenest  to  those  who  go,  but  it  stays 
longer  with  those  who  are  left  behind. 

"  Dorothy,  take  good  care  of  thy  mother  !" 
Friend  Barton  said,  taking  his  daughter's  face 
between  his  hands  and  gravely  kissing  her  brow 
between  the  low-parted  ripples  of  her  hair. 

"  Yes,  father,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  eyes. 
"  Thee  knows  I'm  thy  eldest  son." 

They  watched  the  old  chaise  swing  round  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  then  the  pollard  willows  shut 
it  from  sight. 

"  Come,  mother,"  said  Dorothy,  hurrying  her  in 
at  the  gate.  ''I'm  going  to  make  a  great  pot  of 
mush,  and  have  it  hot  for  supper,  and  fried  for 
breakfast,  and  warmed  up  with  molasses  for  din 
ner,  and  there'll  be  some  cold  with  milk  for  sup 
per,  and  we  shan't  have  any  cooking  to  do  at  all." 

They  went  round  to  the  kitchen  door.  Rachel 
stopped  in  the  wood-shed,  and  the  tears  rushed  to 
her  eyes. 

"  Dear  father  !  How  he  has  worked  over  that 
wood,  early  and  late,  to  spare  us  !" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  93 

We  will  not  revive  Dorothy's  struggles  with 
the  farm-work  and  with  the  boys.  They  were  an 
isolated  family  at  the  mill-house  ;  their  peculiar 
faith  isolated  them  still  more,  and  they  were  twelve 
miles  from  meeting  and  the  settlement  of  Friends 
at  Stony  Valley.  Dorothy's  pride  kept  her  silent 
about  her  needs,  lest  they  might  bring  reproach 
upon  her  father  among  the  neighbors,  who  would 
not  be  likely  to  feel  the  urgency  of  his  spiritual 
summons. 

The  summer  heats  came  on  apace  and  the  nights 
grew  shorter.  It  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  she  had 
hardly  stretched  out  her  tired  young  body  and  for 
gotten  her  cares  in  the  low  attic  bedroom,  before 
the  east  was  streaked  with  light  and  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  apple-trees,  whose  falling  blossoms 
drifted  in  at  the  window. 

One  day  in  early  June,  Friend  Barton's  flock  of 
sheep — consisting  of  nine  experienced  ewes,  six 
yearlings,  and  a  sprinkling  of  close-curled  lambs 
whose  legs  had  not  yet  come  into  mature  relations 
with  their  bodies — were  gathered  in  a  little  railed 
inclosure,  beside  the  stream  which  flowed  into  the 
"  mill-head."  It  was  supplied  by  the  waste  from 
the  pond,  and  when  the  gate  was  shut,  rambled 
easily  over  the  gray  slate  pebbles,  with  here  and 
there  a  fall,  just  forcible  enough  to  serve  as  a 
douche  bath  for  a  well-grown  sheep.  The  victims 
were  panting  in  their  heavy  fleeces,  and  their 
hoarse,  plaintive  tremolo  mingled  with  the  ripple 
of  the  water  and  the  sound  of  young  voices  in  a 


94  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

frolic.  Dorothy  had  divided  her  forces  for  the 
washing  to  the  best  advantage.  The  two  elder 
boys  stood  in  the  stream  to  receive  the  sheep, 
which  she,  with  the  help  of  little  Jimmy,  caught 
and  dragged  to  the  bank. 

The  boys  were  at  work  now  upon  an  elderly  ewe, 
while  Dorothy  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  stream, 
braced  against  an  ash  sapling,  dragging  at  the 
fleece  of  a  beautiful  but  reluctant  yearling.  Her 
bare  feet  were  incased  in  a  pair  of  moccasins  which 
laced  around  the  ankle  ;  her  petticoats  were  kilted, 
and  her  broad  hat  bound  down  with  a  ribbon  ;  one 
sleeve  was  rolled  up,  the  other  had  been  sacrificed 
in  a  scuffle  in  the  sheep-pen.  The  new  candidate 
for  immersion  stood  bleating  and  trembling,  with 
her  fore  feet  planted  against  the  slippery  bank, 
pushing  back  with  all  her  strength,  while  Jimmy 
propelled  from  the  rear. 

"  Boys  !"  Dorothy's  clear  voice  called  across 
the  stream.  "Do  hurry!  She's  been  in  long 
enough,  now  !  Keep  her  head  up,  can't  you,  and 
squeeze  the  wool  hard !  You're  not  half  washing  ! 
Oh,  Reuby  !  thee'll  drown  her  !  Keep  her  head 
up  !" 

Another  unlucky  douse  and  another  half-smoth 
ered  bleat, — Dorothy  released  the  yearling  and 
plunged  to  the  rescue.  "  Go  after  that  lamb, 
Reuby  !"  she  cried,  with  exasperation  in  her  voice. 
Reuby  followed  the  yearling,  which  had  disappear 
ed  over  the  orchard  slope,  upsetting  an  obstacle  in 
its  path,  which  happened  to  be  Jimmy.  He  was 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  95 

now  wailing  on  the  bank,  while  Dorothy,  with  the 
ewe's  nose  tucked  comfortably  in  the  bend  of 
her  arm,  was  parting  and  squeezing  the  fleece, 
with  the  water  swirling  round  her.  Her  stout 
arms  ached,  and  her  ears  were  stunned  with  the 
incessant  bleating  ;  she  counted  with  dismay  the 
sheep  still  waiting  in  the  pen.  "  Oh,  Jimmy  !  do 
stop  crying,  or  else  go  to  the  house  !" 

"  He'd  better  go  after  Reuby, "  said  Sheppard 
Barton,  who  was  now  Dorothy's  sole  dependence. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  do,  Jimmy,  that's  a  good  boy.  Tell 
him  to  let  the  yearling  go,  and  come  back  quick." 

The  water  had  run  low  that  morning  in  Eve- 
sham's  pond.  He  shut  down  the  mill,  and  strode 
up  the  hills,  across  lots,  to  raise  the  gate  of  the 
lower  Barton  Pond,  which  had  been  heading  up 
for  his  use.  He  passed  the  corn-field  where,  a 
month  before,  he  had  seen  pretty  Dorothy  Barton 
dropping  corn  with  her  brothers.  It  made  him 
ache  to  think  of  Dorothy,  with  her  feeble  mother, 
the  boys,  as  wild  as  preacher's  sons  proverbially  are, 
and  the  old  farm  running  down  on  her  hands  ;  the 
fences  all  needed  mending,  and  there  went  Reuben 
Barton,  now,  careering  over  the  fields  in  chase  of  a 
stray  yearling.  His  mother's  house  was  big,  and 
lonely,  and  empty  ;  and  he  flushed  as  he  thought 
of  the  "  one  ewe-lamb"  he  coveted,  out  of  Friend 
Barton's  rugged  pastures.  As  he  raised  the  gate, 
and  leaned  to  watch  the  water  swirl  and  gurgle 
through  the  "  trunk,"  sucking  the  long  weeds  with 
it,  and  thickening  with  its  tumult  the  clear  current 


96  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

of  the  stream,  the  sound  of  voices  and  bleating  of 
sheep  came  up  from  below.  He  had  not  the  farm 
ing  instincts  in  his  blood  ; — the  distant  bleating, 
the  hot  June  sunshine  and  cloudless  sky,  did  not 
suggest  to  him  sheep-washing  ; — but  now  came  a 
boy's  voice  shouting  and  a  cry  of  distress,  and  he 
remembered,  with  a  thrill,  that  Friend  Barton  used 
the  stream  for  that  peaceful  purpose.  He  shut 
down  the  gate  and  tore  along  through  the  ferns 
and  tangled  grass  till  he  came  to  the  sheep-pen, 
where  the  bank  was  muddy  and  trampled.  The 
prisoners  were  bleating  drearily  and  looking  with 
longing  eyes  across  to  the  other  side,  where  those 
who  had  suffered  were  now  straying  and  cropping 
the  short  turf,  through  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
the  orchard. 

There  was  no  other  sign  of  life,  except  a  broad 
hat  with  a  brown  ribbon,  buffeted  about  in  an 
eddy,  among  the  stones.  The  stream  dipped  now 
below  the  hill,  and  the  current,  still  racing  fast  with 
the  impetus  he  had  given  it,  shot  away  among  the 
hazel  thickets  which  crowded  close  to  the  brink. 
He  was  obliged  to  make  a  detour  by  the  orchard, 
and  come  out  at  the  "  mill-head  "  below  ; — a  black, 
deep  pool,  with  an  ugly  ripple  setting  across  it  to 
the  "  head -gate."  He  saw  something  white  cling 
ing  there  and  ran  round  the  brink.  It  was  the  sod 
den  fleece  of  the  old  ewe  which  had  been  drifted 
against  the  "  head-gate,"  and  held  there  to  her 
death.  Evesham,  with  a  sickening  contraction  of 
the  heart,  threw  off  his  jacket  for  a  plunge,  when 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  97 

Dorothy's  voice  called  rather  faintly  from  the  wil 
lows  on  the  opposite  bank. 

"  Don't  jump  !  I'm  here,"  she  said.  Evesham 
searched  the  willows,  and  found  her  seated  in  the 
sun  just  beyond,  half  buried  in  a  bed  of  ferns. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  called  thee,"  she  said  shyly, 
as  he  sank,  pale  and  panting,  beside  her,  "  but 
thee  looked — I  thought  thee  was  going  to  jump 
into  the  mill-head  !" 

"  I  thought  you  were  there,  Dorothy  !" 

"  I  was  there  quite  long  enough.  Shep  pulled 
me  out  ;  I  was  too  tired  to  help  myself  much." 
Dorothy  held  her  palm  pressed  against  her  temple, 
and  the  blood  trickled  from  beneath,  streaking  her 
pale,  wet  cheek. 

"  He's  gone  to  the  house  to  get  me  a  cloak.  I 
don't  want  mother  to  see  me — not  yet,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  ought  not  to  wait,  Dorothy. 
Let  me  take  you  to  the  house,  won't  you  ?  I'm 
afraid  you'll  get  a  deadly  chill." 

Dorothy  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  death. 
She  was  blushing  now,  because  Evesham  would 
think  it  so  strange  of  her  to  stay,  and  yet  she  could 
not  rise  in  her  wet  clothes,  which  clung  to  her  like 
the  calyx  to  a  bud. 

**  Let  me  see  that  cut,  Dorothy,  please  /" 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.     I  don't  wish  thee  to  look  at 

it  r 

"  But  I  will  !  Do  you  want  to  make  me  your 
murderer — sitting  there  in  your  wet  clothes,  with  a 
cut  on  your  head  ?" 


98  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

He  drew  away  her  hand,  and  the  wound,  indeed, 
was  no  great  affair,  but  he  bound  it  up  deftly  with 
strips  of  his  handkerchief.  Dorothy's  wet  curls 
touched  his  fingers  and  clung  to  them,  and  her 
eyelashes  drooped  lower  and  lower. 

"  I  think  it  was  very  stupid  of  thee.  Didn't  thee 
hear  us  from  the  dam?  I'm  sure  we  made  noise 
enough." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  you  when  it  was  too  late.  I  heard 
the  sheep  before,  but  how  could  I  imagine  that  you, 
Dorothy,  and  three  boys,  as  big  as  cockerels,  were 
sheep-washing  ?  It's  the  most  preposterous  thing 
I  ever  heard  of  !" 

"Well,  I  can't  help  being  a  woman,  and  the 
sheep  had  to  be  washed.  I  think  there  ought  to  be 
more  men  in  the  world  when  half  of  them  are 
preaching  and  fighting." 

"  If  you'd  only  let  the  men  who  are  left  help  you 
a  little,  Dorothy  !" 

"  I  don't  want  any  help.  I  only  don't  want  to  be 
washed  into  the  mill-head." 

They  both  laughed,  and  Evesham  began  again 
entreating  her  to  let  him  take  her  to  the  house. 

"  Hasn't  thee  a  coat  or  something  I  could  put 
around  me  until  Shep  comes  ?"  said  Dorothy.  "  He 
must  be  here  soon." 

"  Yes,  I've  got  a  jacket  here  somewhere." 

He  sped  away  to  find  it,  and  faithless  Dorothy, 
as  the  willows  closed  beween  them,  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  fled  like  a  startled  Naiad  to  the 
house. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  99 

When  Evesham,  pushing  through  the  willows, 
saw  nothing  but  the  bed  of  wet,  crushed  ferns  and 
the  trail  through  the  long  grass  where  Dorothy's 
feet  had  fled,  he  smiled  grimly  to  himself,  remem 
bering  that  "  ewe-lambs"  are  not  always  as  meek 
as  they  look. 

That  evening  Rachel  had  received  a  letter  from 
Friend  Barton,  and  was  preparing  to  read  it  aloud 
to  the  children.  They  were  in  the  kitchen,  where 
the  boys  had  been  helping  Dorothy,  in  a  desultory 
manner,  to  shell  corn  for  the  chickens  ;  but  now 
all  was  silence,  while  Rachel  wiped  ner  glasses  and 
turned  the  large  sheet  of  paper,  squared  with  many 
foldings,  to  the  candle. 

She  read  the  date,  "  London  Grove,  5th  month, 
22nd. — Most  affectionately  beloved."  "  He  means 
us  all,"  said  Rachel,  turning  to  the  children  with 
a  tender  smile.  "  It's  spelled  with  a  small  b." 

"He  means  thee  !"  said  Dorothy,  laughing. 
"  Thee's  not  such  a  very  big  beloved." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "  I  don't  know 
that  the  opening  of  the  letter  is  of  general  inter 
est,"  Rachel  mused,  with  her  eyes  travelling  slowly 
down  the  page.  "  He  says  :  '  In  regard  to  my 
health,  lest  thee  should  concern  thyself,  I  am  thank 
ful  to  say  I  have  never  enjoyed  better  since  years 
have  made  me  acquainted  with  my  infirmities  of 
body,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  my  dear  wife  and 
children  are  enjoying  the  same  blessing. 

"  '  I  trust  the  boys  are  not  deficient  in  obedience 
and  helpfulness.  At  Sheppard's  age  I  had  already 


loo  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN1, 

begun  to  take  the  duties  of  a  man  upon  my  shoul 
ders.'  " 

Sheppard  giggled  uncomfortably,  and  Dorothy 
laughed  outright. 

"  Oh  !  if  father  only  knew  how  good  the  boys 
are  !  Mother,  thee  must  write  and  tell  him  about 
their  *  helpfulness  and  obedience  '  !  Thee  can  tell 
him  their  appetites  keep  up  pretty  well  ;  they  man 
age  to  take  their  meals  regularly,  and  they  are 
always  out  of  bed  by  eight  o'clock,  to  help  me  hang 
up  the  milking-stool  !" 

"  Just  wait  till  thee  gets  in  the  mill-head  again, 
Dorothy  Barton  !  Thee  needn't  come  to  me  to 
help  thee  out  !" 

"  Go  on,  mother  !  Don't  let  the  boys  interrupt 
thee!" 

"Well,"  said  Rachel,  rousing  herself,  "where 
was  I  ?  Oh,  '  when  I  was  Sheppard's  age  '  !  Well, 
next  come  some  allusions  to  the  places  where  he 
has  visited,  and  his  spiritual  exercises  there.  I 
don't  know  that  the  boys  are  quite  old  enough  to 
enter  into  this  yet.  Thee'd  better  read  it  thyself, 
Dorothy.  I'm  keeping  all  father's  letters  for  the 
boys  to  read,  when  they  are  old  enough  to  appreci 
ate  them." 

"  Well,  I  think  thee  might  read  us  about  where 
he's  been  preachin'  !  We  can  understand  a  great 
deal  more  than  thee  thinks  we  can  !"  said  Shep,  in 
an  injured  voice.  "  Reuby,  he  can  preach  some 
himself!  Thee  ought  to  hear  him,  mother.  It's 
almost  as  good  as  meetin'  !" 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  101 

"  I  wondered  how  Reuby  spent  his  time  !"  said 
Dorothy,  and  the  mother  hastened  to  interpose. 

"  Well,  here's  a  passage  that  may  be  interesting  : 
'  On  sixth  day  attended  the  youths'  meeting  here, 
— a  pretty  favored  time  on  the  whole.  Joseph  ' 
[that's  Joseph  Carpenter  ;  he  mentions  him  aways 
back]  '  had  good  service  in  lively  testimony,  while 
I  was  calm  and  easy,  without  a  word  to  say.  At  a 
meeting  at  Plumstead,  we  suffered  long,  but  at 
length  we  felt  relieved.  The  unfaithful  were  ad 
monished,  the  youth  invited,  and  the  heavy-hearted 
encouraged.  It  was  a  heavenly  time  ! '  Hereto 
fore  he  seems  to  have  been  closed  up  with  silence 
a  good  deal  ;  but  now  the  way  opens  continually 
for  him  to  free  himself.  He's  been  '  much  favored,' 
he  says,  'of  late.'  Reuby,  what's  thee  doing  to 
thy  brothers?"  (Shep  and  Reuby,  who  had  been 
persecuting  Jimmy  by  pouring  handfuls  of  corn 
down  the  neck  of  his  jacket  until  he  had  taken 
refuge  behind  Dorothy's  chair,  were  now  recrimi 
nating  with  corn-cobs  on  each  other's  faces.) 
"  Dorothy,  can't  thee  keep  those  boys  quiet  ?" 

"Did  thee  ever  know  them  to  be  quiet?"  said 
Dorothy,  helping  Jimmy  to  relieve  himself  of  his 
corn. 

"  Well  now,  listen  !"  Rachel  continued  placidly, 
"  '  Second  day,  2yth  '  (of  fifth  month,  he  means,  the 
letter's  been  a  long  time  coming),  '  attended  their 
mid-week  meeting  at  London  Grove,  where  my 
tongue  as  it  were  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth, 
while  Hannah  Husbands  was  much  favored,  and 


102  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

enabled  to  lift  up  her  voice  like  the  song  of  an 
angel  '  " — 

"  Who's  Hannah  Husbands  ?"  cried  Dorothy. 

"  Thee  don't  know  her,  dear.  She  was  second 
cousin  to  thy  father's  step-mother  ;  the  families 
were  not  congenial,  I  believe  ;  but  she  has  a  great 
gift  for  the  ministry." 

"  I  should  think  she'd  better  be  at  home  with 
her  children, — if  she  has  any.  Fancy  thee,  mother, 
going  about  to  strange  meetings,  and  lifting  up 
thy  voice." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  Dorothy  !  Thy  tongue's  run 
ning  away  with  thee.  Consider  the  example  thee's 
setting  the  boys." 

"  Thee'd  better  write  to  father  about  Dorothy, 
mother  !  Perhaps  Hannah  Husbands  would  like 
to  know  what  she  thinks  about  her  preachin'  !" 

"  Well  now,  be  quiet,  all  of  you.  Here's  some 
thing  about  Dorothy  :  '  I  know  that  my  dear 
daughter  Dorothy  is  faithful  and  loving,  albeit 
somewhat  quick  of  speech,  and  restive  under  ob 
ligation.  I  would  have  thee  remind  her  that  an 
unwillingness  to  accept  help  from  others  argues  a 
want  of  Christian  Meekness.  Entreat  her,  from 
me,  not  to  conceal  her  needs  from  our  neighbors, 
if  so  be  she  find  her  work  oppressive.  We  know 
them  to  be  of  kindly  intention,  though  not  of  our 
way  of  thinking  in  all  particulars.  Let  her  receive 
help  from  them,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  instru 
ments  of  the  Lord's  protection,  which  it  were  im 
piety  and  ingratitude  to  deny.'  " 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  103 

11  There  !"  cried  Shep.  "  That  means  thee's  to 
let  Luke  Jordan  finish  the  sheep-washing.  Thee'd 
better  have  done  it  in  the  first  place.  We  wouldn't 
have  the  old  ewe  to  pick  if  thee  had  !" 

Dorothy  was  dimpling  at  the  idea  of  Luke  Jordan 
in  the  character  of  an  instrument  of  heavenly  pro 
tection.  She  had  not  regarded  him  in  that  light, 
it  must  be  confessed,  and  had  rejected  him  with 
scorn. 

"  He  may  if  he  wants  to,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you 
boys  shall  drive  them  over.  I'll  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it." 

"  And  shear  them  too,  Dorothy?  He  asked  to 
shear  them  long  ago." 

"  Well,  let  him  shear  them,  and  keep  the  wool 
too." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,  Dorothy  !"  said  Rachel 
Barton.  "  We  need  the  wool,  and  it  seems  as  if 
over-payment  might  not  be  quite  honest  either." 

"  Oh  !  mother,  mother  !  What  a  mother  thee 
is  !"  cried  Dorothy  laughing,  and  rumpling  her 
cap-strings  in  a  tumultuous  embrace. 

"  She's  a  great  deal  too  good  for  thee,  Dorothy 
Barton." 

"  She's  too  good  for  all  of  us  !  How  did  thee 
ever  come  to  have  such  a  graceless  set  of  children, 
mother  ?" 

"  I'm  very  well  satisfied,"  said  Rachel.  "  But 
now  do  be  quiet,  and  let's  finish  the  letter.  We 
must  get  to  bed  some  time  to-night  !" 

The    wild    clematis    was    in    blossom    now — the 


104  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

fences  were  white  with  it,  and  the  rusty  cedars 
were  crowned  with  virgin  wreaths,  but  the  weeds 
were  thick  in  the  garden  and  in  the  potato  patch. 
Dorothy,  stretching  her  cramped  back,  looked 
longingly  up  the  shadowy  vista  of  the  farm-lane, 
which  had  nothing  to  do  but  ramble  off  into  the 
remotest  green  fields,  where  the  daisies'  faces  were 
as  white  and  clear  as  in  early  June. 

One  hot  August  night  she  came  home  late  from 
the  store.  The  stars  were  thick  in  the  sky  ;  the 
katydids  made  the  night  oppressive  with  their 
rasping  questionings,  and  a  hoarse  revel  of  frogs 
kept  the  ponds  from  falling  asleep  in  the  shadow 
of  the  hills. 

"Is  thee  very  tired  to-night,  Dorothy?"  her 
mother  asked,  as  she  took  her  seat  on  the  low  step 
of  the  porch.  "  Would  thee  mind  turning  old 
John  out  thyself  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  I'm  not  tired.  But  why — oh,  / 
know  !"  cried  Dorothy,  with  a  quick  laugh. 
"  The  dance — at  Slocum's  barn.  I  thought  those 
boys  were  uncommonly  helpful." 

"  Yes,  dear,  it's  but  natural  they  should  want  to 
see  it.  Hark  !  we  can  hear  the  music  from  here." 

They  listened,  and  the  breeze  brought  across  the 
fields  the  sound  of  fiddles  and  the  rhythmic  tramp 
of  feet,  softened  by  the  distance.  Dorothy's 
young  pulses  leaped. 

14  Mother,  is  it  any  harm  for  them  just  to  see  it  ? 
They  have  so  little  fun  except  what  they  get  out  of 
teasing  and  shirking." 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  105 

"  My  dear,  thy  father  would  never  countenance 
such  a  scene  of  frivolity,  or  permit  one  of  his  chil 
dren  to  look  upon  it." 

Through  our  eyes  and  ears  the  world  takes  pos 
session  of  our  hearts. 

"  Then  I'm  to  spare  the  boys  this  temptation, 
mother  ?  Thee  will  trust  me  to  pass  the  barn  ?" 

"  I  would  trust  my  boys,  if  they  were  thy  age, 
Dorothy.  But  their  resolution  is  tender,  like  their 
years." 

It  might  be  questioned  whether  the  frame  of 
mind  in  which  the  boys  went  to  bed  that  night, 
under  their  mother's  eye, — for  Rachel  could  be 
firm  in  a  case  of  conscience, — was  more  improving 
than  the  frivolity  of  Slocum's  barn. 

"  Mother,"  called  Dorothy,  looking  in  at  the 
kitchen  window,  where  .Rachel  was  stooping  over 
the  embers  in  the  fireplace,  to  light  a  bedroom 
candle,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  thee." 

Rachel  came  to  the  window,  screening  the  candle 
with  her  hand. 

"  Will  thee  trust  me  to  look  at  the  dancing  a  lit 
tle  while  ?  It  is  so  very  near." 

"  Why,  Dorothy,  does  thee  want  to  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  believe  I  do.  I've  never  seen  a 
dance  in  my  life.  It  cannot  ruin  me  to  look  just 
once." 

Rachel  stood  puzzled. 

"  Thee's  old  enough  to  judge  for  thyself,  Doro 
thy.  But,  my  child,  do  not  tamper  with  thy  incli 
nations  through  heedless  curiosity.  Thee  knows 


ic6  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

thee's  more  impulsive  than  I  could  wish— for  thy 
own  peace." 

"  I'll  be  very  careful,  mother.  If  I  feel  in  the 
least  wicked  I  will  not  look." 

She  kissed  her  mother's  hand,  which  rested  on 
the  window-sill.  Rachel  did  not  like  the  kiss,  or 
Dorothy's  brilliant  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  as  the 
candle  revealed  them  like  a  fair  picture  painted  on 
the  darkness.  She  hesitated,  and  Dorothy  sped 
away  up  the  lane  with  old  John  lagging  at  his 
halter. 

Was  it  the  music  growing  nearer  that  quickened 
her  breathing,  or  only  the  closeness  of  the  night, 
shut  in  between  the  wild  grape-vine  curtains, 
swung  from  one  dark  cedar  column  to  another  ? 
She  caught  the  sweet-brier  breath  as  she  hurried 
by,  and  now,  a  loop  in  the  leafy  curtain  revealed 
the  pond  lying  black  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  with 
a  whole  heaven  of  stars  reflected  in  it.  Old  John 
stumbled  along  over  the  stones,  cropping  the  grass 
as  he  went.  Dorothy  tugged  at  his  halter  and 
urged  him  on  to  the  head  of  the  lane  where  two 
farm-gates  stood  at  right  angles.  One  of  them 
was  open,  and  a  number  of  horses  were  tethered  in 
a  row  along  the  fence  within.  They  whinneyed  a 
cheerful  greeting  to  John  as  Dorothy  slipped  his 
halter  and  shut  him  into  the  field  adjoining.  Now 
should  she  walk  into  temptation  with  her  eyes  and 
ears  open  ?  The  gate  stood  wide,  with  only  one 
field  of  perfumed  meadow-grass  between  her  and 
the  lights  and  music  of  Slocum's  barn  !  The  sound 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  107 

of  revelry  by  night  could  hardly  have  taken  a  more 
innocent  form  than  this  rustic  dancing  of  neigh 
bors  after  a  "  raisin'  bee,"  but  had  it  been  the  rout 
of  Comus  and  his  crew,  and  Dorothy  the  Lady 
Una,  trembling  near,  her  heart  could  hardly  have 
throbbed  more  thickly  as  she  crossed  the  dewy- 
meadow.  A  young  maple  stood  within  ten  rods  of 
the  barn,  and  here  she  crouched  in  shadow. 

The  great  doors  stood  wide  open,  and  lanterns 
were  hung  from  the  beams  lighting  the  space  be 
tween  the  mows,  where  a  dance  was  set,  with 
youths  and  maidens  in  two  long  rows.  The  fid 
dlers  sat  on  barrel-heads  near  the  door  ;  a  lantern 
hanging  just  behind  projected  their  shadows  across 
the  square  of  light  on  the  trodden  space  in  front 
where  they  executed  a  grotesque  pantomime,  keep 
ing  time  to  the  music  with  spectral  wavings  and 
noddings.  The  dancers  were  Dorothy's  young 
neighbors,  whom  she  had  known  and  yet  not 
known  all  her  life,  but  they  had  the  strangeness  of 
familiar  faces  seen  suddenly  in  some  fantastic 
dream. 

Surely  that  was  Nancy  Slocum,  in  the  bright 
pink  gown,  heading  the  line  of  girls,  and  that 
was  Luke  Jordan's  sunburnt  profile  leaning 
from  his  place  to  pluck  a  straw  from  the  mow  be 
hind  him.  They  were  marching  now,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  feet,  keeping  solid  time  to  the 
fiddles,  set  a  strange  tumult  vibrating  in  Dorothy's 
blood  ;  and  now  it  stopped  with  a  thrill  as  she 
recognized  that  Evesham  was  there  marching  with 


loo  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

the  young  men,  and  that  his  peer  was  not  among 
them.  The  perception  of  his  difference  came  to 
her  with  a  vivid  shock.  He  was  coming  forward 
now,  with  his  light,  firm  step,  formidable  in  even 
ing  dress,  and  with  a  smile  of  subtle  triumph  in 
his  eyes,  to  meet  Nancy  Slocum,  in  the  bright  pink 
gown  ;  Dorothy  felt  she  hated  pink,  of  all  the  col 
ors  her  faith  had  abjured.  She  could  sec,  in  spite 
of  the  obnoxious  gown,  that  Nancy  was  very 
pretty.  He  was  taking  her  first  by  the  right  hand, 
then  by  the  left,  and  turning  her  gayly  about  ; — 
and  now  they  were  meeting  again,  for  the  fourth 
or  fifth  time,  in  the  centre  of  the  barn,  with  all 
eyes  upon  them,  and  the  music  lingered  while 
Nancy,  holding  out  her  pink  petticoats,  coyly 
^•Evolved  around  him.  Then  began  a  mysterious 
turning,  and  clasping  of  hands,  and  weaving  of 
Nancy's  pink  frock  and  Evesham's  dark  blue  coat 
and  white  breeches  in  and  out  of  the  line  of  fig 
ures,  until  they  met  at  the  door,  and  taking  each 
other  by  both  hands,  swept  with  a  joyous  measure 
to  the  head  of  the  barn.  Dorothy  gave  a  little 
choking  sigh. 

What  a  senseless  whirl  it  was  !  But  she  was 
thrilling  with  a  new  and  strange  excitement,  too 
near  the  edge  of  pain  to  be  long  endured  as  a  pleas 
ure.  If  this  were  the  influence  of  dancing,  she  did 
not  wonder  so  much  at  her  father's  scruples, — and 
yet  it  held  her  like  a  spell. 

All  hands  were  lifted  now,  making  an  arch, 
through  which  Evesharn,  holding  Nancy  by  the 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  109 

hands,  raced  stooping  and  laughing.  As  they 
emerged  at  the  door,  he  threw  up  his  head  to  shake 
a  brown  lock  back.  He  looked  flushed,  and  boy 
ishly  gay,  and  his  hazel  eye  searched  the  darkness 
with  that  subtle  ray  of  triumph  in  it  which  had 
made  Dorothy  afraid.  She  drew  back  behind  the 
tree  and  pressed  her  hot  cheek  to  the  cool,  rough 
bark.  She  longed  for  the  stillness  of  the  starlit 
meadow,  and  the  dim  lane,  with  its  faint  perfumes 
and  whispering  leaves. 

But  now  suddenly  the  music  stopped,  and  the 
dance  broke  up  in  a  tumult  of  voices.  Dorothy 
stole  backward  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree-trunk,  till 
it  joined  the  darkness  of  the  meadow,  and  then 
fled, — stumbling  along  .with  blinded  eyes,  and  the 
music  still  vibrating  in  her  ears.  There  came  a 
quick  rush  of  footsteps  behind  her,  swishing 
through  the  long  grass.  She  did  not  look  back, 
but  quickened  her  pace,  struggling  to  reach  the 
gate.  Evesham  was  there  before  her.  He  had 
swung  the  gate  to  and  was  leaning  with  his  back 
against  it,  laughing  and  panting. 

"  I've  caught  you,  Dorothy,  you  little  deceiver  ! 
You'll  not  get  rid  of  me  to-night  with  any  of  your 
tricks.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  to  your 
mother,  and  tell  her  you  were  peeping  at  the  danc 
ing." 

"  Mother  knows  I  am  here,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I 
asked  her  !"  Her  knees  were  trembling,  and  her 
heart  almost  choked  her  with  its  throbbing. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  dance,  Dorothy.     This 


no  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

is  much  nicer  than  the  barn  ;  and  the  katydids  are 
better  fiddlers  than  old  Darby  and  his  son.  I'll 
open  the  gate  if  you  will  put  your  hand  in  mine,  so 
I  can  be  sure  of  you — you  little  runaway  !" 

"  I  will  stay  here  all  night,  first  !"  said  Dorothy, 
in  a  low  quivering  voice. 

"  As  you  choose.  I  shall  be  happy  as  long  as 
you  are  here." 

Dead  silence,  while  the  katydids  seemed  to  keep 
time  to  their  heart-beats  ;  the  fiddles  began  tuning 
for  another  reel,  and  the  horses  tethered  near 
stretched  out  their  necks  with  low  inquiring  whin- 
neys. 

"  Dorothy,"  said  Evesham,  softly,  leaning  tow 
ard  her  and  trying  to  see  her  face  in  the  dark 
ness,  "  are  you  angry  with  me  ?  Don't  you  think 
you  deserve  a  little  punishment  for  the  trick  you 
played  me  at  the  mill-head  ?" 

"  It  was  thy  fault  for  wetting  me  !"  Dorothy 
was  too  excited  and  angry  to  cry,  but  she  was  as 
miserable  as  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life  before. 
"  I  didn't  want  thee  to  stay.  People  who  force 
themselves  where  they  are  not  wanted  must  take 
what  they  get  !" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Dorothy  ?" 

"  I  say  I  didn't  want  thee  then.  I  do  not  want 
thee  now  !  Thee  may  go  back  to  thy  fiddling  and 
dancing  !  I'd  rather  have  one  of  those  dumb 
brutes  for  company  to-night  than  thee,  Walter 
Evesham  !" 

"Very  well!     The  reel  has  begun,"  said  Eve- 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  ill 

sham.  "  Fanny  Jordan  is  waiting  to  dance  it  with 
me,  or  if  she  isn't  she  ought  to  be  !  Shall  I  open 
the  gate  for  you  ?" 

She  passed  out  in  silence,  and  the  gate  swung  to 
with  a  heavy  jar.  She  made  good  speed  down  the 
lane,  and  then  waited  outside  the  fence  till  her 
breath  came  more  quietly. 

"  Is  that  thee,  Dorothy  ?"  Rachel's  voice  called 
from  the  porch.  She  came  out  to  meet  her,  and 
they  went  along  the  walk  together.  "  How  damp 
thy  forehead  is,  child  !  is  the  night  so  warm  ?" 
They  sat  down  on  the  low  steps,  and  Dorothy  slid 
her  arm  under  her  mother's  and  laid  her  soft  palm 
against  the  one  less  soft  by  twenty  years  of  toil  for 
others.  "  Thee's  not  been  long,  dear  ;  was  it  as 
much  as  thee  expected  ?" 

."  Mother,  it  was  dreadful  !  I  never  wish  to  hear 
a  fiddle  again  as  long  as  I  live  !" 

Rachel  opened  the  way  for  Dorothy  to  speak 
further  ;  she  was  not  without  some  mild  stirrings 
of  curiosity  on  the  subject  herself  ;  but  Dorothy 
had  no  more  to  say. 

They  went  into  the  house  soon  after,  and  as  they 
separated  for  the  night,  Dorothy  clung  to  her 
mother  with  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"  Mother,  what  is  that  text  about  Ephraim  ?" 

"  Ephraim  is  joined  to  idols?"  Rachel  sug 
gested. 

"  Yes  !  Ephraim  is  joined  to  his  idols  !"  said 
Dorothy,  lifting  her  head.  "  Let  him  go  !" 

"  Let  him  alone"  corrected  Rachel. 


112  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  Let  him  alone  .'"  Dorothy  repeated.  "  That  is 
better  yet." 

"  What's  thee  thinking  of,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  thinking  about  the  dance  in  the 
barn." 

"I'm  glad  thee  looks  at  it  in  that  light,"  said 
Rachel. 

Dorothy  knelt  by  her  bed  in  the  low  chamber 
under  the  eaves,  crying  to  herself  that  she  was  not 
the  child  of  her  mother  any  more. 

She  felt  she  had  lost  something,  which,  in  truth, 
had  never  been  hers.  It  was  only  the  unconscious 
poise  of  her  unawakened  girlhood  which  had  been 
stirred.  She  had  mistaken  it  for  that  abiding  peace 
which  is  not  lost  or  won  in  a  day. 

Dorothy  could  not  stifle  the  spring  thrills  in  her 
blood  any  more  than  she  could  crush  its  color  out 
of  her  cheek  or  brush  the  ripples  out  of  her  bright 
hair,  but  she  longed  for  the  cool  grays  and  the  still 
waters.  She  prayed  that  the  "  grave  and  beauti 
ful  damsel  called  Discretion"  might  take  her  by 
the  hand  and  lead  her  to  that  "  upper  chamber, 
whose  name  is  Peace."  She  lay  awake,  listening 
to  the  music  from  the  barn,  and  waiting  through 
breathless  silences  for  it  to  begin  again.  She^won- 
dered  if  Fanny  Jordan  had  grown  any  prettier  since 
she  had  seen  her  as  a  half-grown  girl  ;  and  then 
she  despised  herself  for  the  thought.  The  katy 
dids  seemed  to  beat  their  wings  upon  her  brain, 
and  all  the  noises  of  the  night,  far  and  near,  came 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  113 

to  her  strained  senses,  as  if  her  silent  chamber 
were  a  whispering  gallery.  The  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  in  the  silence  that  followed  she  missed 
the  music  ;  but  voices,  talking  and  laughing,  were 
coming  down  the  lane.  There  was  the  clink  of  a 
horse's  hoof  on  the  stones  ;  now  it  was  lost  on  the 
turf  ;  and  now  they  were  all  trooping  noisily  past 
the  house.  She  buried  her  head  in  her  pillow,  and 
tried  to  bury  with  it  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
wondering  if  Evesham  were  there,  laughing  with 
the  rest. 

Yes,  Evesham  was  there.  He  walked  with  Farm 
er  Jordan,  behind  the  young  men  arid  girls,  and 
discussed  with  him,  somewhat  absently,  the  war 
news  and  the  prices  of  grain. 

As  they  passed  the  dark  old  house,  spreading  its 
wide  roofs,  like  a  hen  gathering  her  chickens  under 
her  wing,  he  became  suddenly  silent.  A  white 
curtain  flapped  in  and  out  of  an  upper  window.  It 
was  the  window  of  the  boys'  room  ;  but  Evesham 's 
instincts  failed  him  there. 

"  Queer  kinks  them  old  Friend  preachers  git 
into  their  heads  sometimes  !"  said  farmer  Jordan, 
as  they  passed  the  empty  mill.  "  Now  what  do 
you  s'pose  took  Uncle  Tommy  Barton  off  right  on 
topt)f  plantin',  leavin'  his  wife  'n'  critters  'n'  chil- 
d'en  to  look  after  themselves  ?  Mighty  good 
preachin'  it  ought  to  be,  to  make  up  for  such  prac- 
ticin'.  Wonderful  set  ag'in  the  war,  Uncle  Tom 
my  is  !  He's  a-preachin'  up  peace  now.  But 
Lord  !  all  the  preachin'  sence  Moses  won't  keep 


114  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

men  from  fightin'  when  their  blood's  up  and  there's 
ter'tory  in  it  !" 

"  It  makes  saints  of  the  women,"  said  Evesham 
shortly. 

"  Wai,  yes  !  Saints  in  heaven  before  their  time, 
some  of  'em.  There's  Dorothy,  now.  She'll  hoe 
her  row  with  any  saint  in  the  kingdom  or  out  of  it. 
I  never  see  a  hulsomer-lookin'  gal.  My  Luke,  he 
run  the  furrers  in  her  corn-patch  last  May.  Said 
it  made  him  sick  to  see  a  gal  like  that  a-staggerin' 
after  a  plow.  She  wouldn't  more'n  half  let  him  ! 
She's  a  proud  little  piece.  They're  all  proud, 
Quakers  is.  I  never  could  see  no  '  poorness  of 
spirit,'  come  to  git  at  'em  !  And  they're  wonder 
ful  clannish,  too.  My  Luke,  he'd  a  notion  he'd 
like  to  run  the  hull  concern — Dorothy  'n'  all  ;  but 
I  told  him  he  might  's  well  p'int  off.  Them 
Quaker  gals  don't  never  marry  out  o'  meetin'. 
Besides,  the  farm's  too  poor  !" 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Jordan  !"  said  Evesham  sud 
denly.  "  I'm  off  across  lots  !"  He  leaped  the 
fence,  crashed  through  the  alder  hedge-row,  and 
disappeared  in  the  dusky  meadow. 

Evesham  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  his  ex 
periments  in  planetary  distances.  Somewhere,  he 
felt  sure,  either  in  his  orbit  or  hers,  there  must  be 
a  point  where  Dorothy  would  be  less  insensible  to 
the  attraction  of  atoms  in  the  mass.  Thus  far,  she 
had  reversed  the  laws  of  the  spheres,  and  the 
greater  had  followed  the  less.  When  she  had  first 
begun  to  hold  a  permanent  place  in  his  thoughts, 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  11$ 

he  had  invested  her  with  something  of  that  atmos 
phere  of  peace  and  cool  passivity  which  hedges  in 
the  women  of  her  faith.  It  had  been  like  a  thin, 
clear  glass,  revealing  her  loveliness,  but  cutting  off 
the  magnetic  currents.  A  young  man  is  not  long 
satisfied  with  the  mystery  his  thoughts  have  woven 
around  the  woman  who  is  their  object.  Evesham 
had  grown  impatient  ;  he  had  broken  the  spell  of 
her  sweet  remoteness.  He  had  touched  her,  and 
found  her  human, — deliciously,  distractingly  hu 
man,  but  with  a  streak  of  obduracy  which  history 
has  attributed  to  the  Quakers  under  persecution. 
In  vain  he  haunted  the  mill-dam,  and  bribed  the 
boys  with  traps  and  pop-guns,  and  lingered  at  the 
well-curb  to  ask  Dorothy  for  water,  which  did  not 
reach  his  thirst.  She  was  there  in  the  flesh,  with 
her  arms  aloft,  balancing  the  well-sweep,  while  he 
stooped  with  his  lips  at  the  bucket  ;  but  in  spirit 
she  was  unapproachable.  He  felt,  with  disgust  at 
his  own  persistence,  that  she  even  grudged  him  the 
water  !  He  grew  savage  and  restless,  and  fretted 
over  the  subtle  changes  which  he  counted  in  Doro 
thy,  as  the  summer  waned.  She  was  thinner  and 
paler, — perhaps  with  the  heats  of  harvest,  which 
had  not,  indeed,  been  burdensome  from  its  abun 
dance.  Her  eyes  were  darker  and  shyer,  and  her 
voice  more  languid.  Was  she  wearing  down,  with 
all  this  work  and  care  ?  A  fierce  disgust  possessed 
him,  that  this  sweet  life  should  be  cast  into  the 
breach  between  faith  and  works. 

He  did  not  see  that  Rachel  Barton  had  changed, 


Ii6  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

too, — with  a  change  that  meant  more,  at  her  age, 
than  Dorothy's  flushings  and  palings.  He  did  not 
miss  the  mother's  bent  form  from  the  garden,  or 
the  bench  by  the  kitchen  door,  where  she  had  been 
used  to  wash  the  milk-things. 

Dorothy  washed  the  milk-things  now,  and  the 
mother  spent  her  days  in  the  sunny  east  room,  be 
tween  her  bed  and  the  easy-chair,  where  she  sat 
and  mused  for  hours  over  the  five  letters  she  had 
received  from  her  husband  in  as  many  months. 
The  boys  had,  in  a  measure,  justified  their  father's 
faith  in  them,  since  Rachel's  illness,  and  Dorothy 
was  released  from  much  of  her  out-door  work  ;  but 
the  silence  of  the  kitchen,  when  she  was  there  alone 
with  her  ironing  and  dish- washing,  was  a  heavier 
burden  than  she  had  yet  known. 

Nature  sometimes  strikes  in  upon  the  hopeless 
monotony  of  life  in  remote  farm-houses,  with  one 
of  her  phenomenal  moods.  They  come  like  besoms 
of  destruction  ;  but  they  scatter  the  web  of  stifling 
routine  ;  they  fling  into  the  stiffening  pool  the 
stone  which  jars  the  atoms  into  crystal.  j 

The  storms  which  had  ambushed  in  the  lurid 
August  skies,  and  circled  ominously  round  the 
horizon  during  the  first  weeks  of  September,  broke 
at  last  in  an  equinoctial  which  was  long  remem 
bered  in  the  mill-house.  It  took  its  place  in  the 
family  calendar  of  momentous  dates  with  the  hard 
winter  of  1800  ;  with  the  late  frost,  which  coated 
the  incipient  apples  with  ice,  and  froze  the  new 


FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN.  117 

potatoes  in   the  ground  ;    and   with  the  year  the 
typhus  got  into  the  valley. 

The  rain  had  been  falling  a  night  and  a  day.  It 
had  been  welcomed  with  thanksgiving  ;  but  it  had 
worn  out  its  welcome  some  hours  since,  and  now 
the  early  darkness  was  coming  on  without  a  lull  in 
the  storm.  Dorothy  and  the  two  biggest  boys  had 
made  the  rounds  of  the  farm-buildings,  seeing  all 
safe  for  the  second  night.  The  barns  and  mill 
stood  on  high  ground,  while  the  house  occupied 
the  sheltered  hollow  between.  Little  streams  from 
the  hills  were  washing  in  turbid  currents  across  the 
lower  levels  ;  the  waste-weir  roared  as  in  early 
spring  ;  the  garden  was  inundated,  and  the  meadow 
a  shallow  pond.  The  sheep  had  been  driven  into 
the  upper  barn  floor  ;  the  chickens  were  in  the  corn- 
bin  ;  and  old  John  and  the  cows  had  been  trans 
ferred  from  the  stable,  which  stood  low,  to  the 
weighing-floor  of  the  mill.  A  gloomy  echoing  and 
gurgling  sounded  from  the  dark  wheel-chamber, 
where  the  water  was  rushing  under  the  wheel,  and 
jarring  it  with  its  tumult.  At  eight  o'clock  tile 
wood-shed  was  flooded,  and  water  began  to  creep 
under  the  kitchen  door.  Dorothy  and  the  boys 
carried  armfuls  of  wood,  and  stacked  them  in  the 
passage  to  the  sitting-room,  two  steps  higher  up. 
At  nine  o'clock  the  boys  were  sent,  protesting,  to 
bed  ;  and  Dorothy,  looking  out  of  their  window, 
as  she  fumbled  about  in  the  dark  for  a  pair  of 
Shep's  trowsers  which  needed  mending,  saw  a  lan 
tern  flickering  up  the  road.  It  was  Evesham,  on 


Il8  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

his  way  to  the  mill-dams.  The  light  glimmered  on 
his  oil-skin  coat  as  he  climbed  the  stile  behind  the 
well-curb. 

"  He  raised  the  flood-gates  at  noon,"  Dorothy 
said  to  herself.  "  I  wonder  if  he  is  anxious  about 
the  dams."  She  resolved  to  watch  for  his  return, 
but  she  was  busy  settling  her  mother  for  the  night 
when  she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  porch.  The 
roar  of  water  from  the  hills  startled  Dorothy  as  she 
opened  the  door  ; — it  had  increased  in  violence 
within  an  hour.  A  gust  of  wind  and  rain  followed 
Evesham  into  the  entry. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  running  lightly  across  the 
sitting-room  to  close  the  door  of  her  mother's 
room. 

He  stood  opposite  her  on  the  hearth-rug  and 
looked  into  her  eyes  across  the  estrangement  of  the 
summer.  It  was  not  Dorothy  of  the  mill-head,  or 
of  Slocum's  meadow,  or  the  cold  maid  of  the  well  : 
it  was  a  very  anxious,  lovely  little  girl,  in  a  crum 
bling  old  house,  with  a  foot  of  water  in  the  cellar, 
and  a  sick  mother  in  the  next  room.  She  had  for 
gotten  about  Ephraim  and  his  idols  ;  she  picked 
up  Shep's  trowsers  from  the  rug,  where  she  had 
dropped  them,  and  looking  intently  at  her  thimble 
finger,  told  him  she  was  very  glad  he  had  come. 

"Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  come?"  said  he. 
"  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  with  me,  Dorothy, — 
you  and  your  mother  and  the  boys.  It's  not  fit  for 
you  to  be  here  alone  !" 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  danger  ?" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  119 

"  I  know  of  none,  but  water's  a  thing  you  can't 
depend  on.  It's  an  ugly  rain  ;  older  men  than 
your  father  remember  nothing  like  it." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  mother  go,  and  Jimmy  ; 
— the  house  is  very  damp.  It's  an  awful  night  for 
her  to  be  out,  though  !" 

"  She  must  go  !"  said  Evesham.  "  You  must  all 
go.  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour — " 

"/shall  not  go,"  Dorothy  said  ;  "  the  boys  and 
I  must  stay  and  look  after  the  stock." 

"What's  that?"  Evesham  was  listening  to  a 
trickling  of  water  outside  the  door. 

"  Oh  !  it's  from  the  kitchen  !  The  door's  blown 
open,  I  guess  !" 

Dorothy  looked  out  into  the  passage  ;  a  strong 
wind  was  blowing  in  from  the  kitchen,  where  the 
water  covered  the  floor  and  washed  against  the 
chimney. 

"  This  is  a  nice  state  of  things  !  What's  all  this 
wood  here  for  ?" 

"  The  wood-shed's  under  water,  you  know." 

"  You  must  get  yourself  ready,  Dorothy  !  I'll 
come  for  your  mother  first  in  the  chaise." 

"  I  cannot  go,"  she  said  ;  "  I  don't  believe  there 
is  any  danger.  This  old  house  has  stood  for  eighty 
years  ;  it's  not  likely  this  is  the  first  big  rain  in  all 
that  time."  Dprothy's  spirits  had  risen.  "  Be 
sides,  I  have  a  family  of  orphans  to  take  care  of  ! 
See  here,"  she  said,  stooping  over  a  basket  in  the 
shadow  of  the  chimney.  It  was  the  "  hospital 
tent,"  and  as  she  uncovered  it,  a  brood  of  belated 


120  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

chickens  stretched  out  their  thin  necks  with  plain 
tive  peeps. 

Dorothy  covered  them  with  her  hands,  and  they 
nestled  with  cozy  twitterings  into  silence. 

'  You're  a  kind  of  special  providence,  aren't 
you,  Dorothy  ?  But  I've  no  sympathy  with  chick 
ens  who  u'iir  be  born  just  in  time  for  the  equinoc 
tial." 

"/didn't  want  them,"  said  Dorothy,  anxious  to 
defend  her  management.  "  The  old  hen  stole  her 
nest,  and  she  left  them  the  day  before  the  rain. 
She's  making  herself  comfortable  now  in  the  corn- 
bin." 

"  She  ought  to  be  made  an  example  of  ; — that's 
the  way  of  the  world,  however  ; — retribution  don't 
fall  always  on  the  right  shoulders.  I  must  go 
now.  We'll  take  your  mother  and  Jimmy  first, 
and  then,  if  you  won't  come,  you  shall  let  me  stay 
with  you.  The  mill  is  safe  enough,  anyhow." 

Evesham  returned  with  the  chaise  and  a  man 
who  he  insisted  should  drive  away  old  John  and 
the  cows,  so  Dorothy  should  have  less  care.  The 
mother  was  packed  into  the  chaise  with  a  vast  col 
lection  of  wraps,  which  almost  obliterated  Jimmy. 
As  they  started,  Dorothy  ran  out  in  the  rain  with 
her  mother's  spectacles  and  the  five  letters,  which 
always  lay  in  a  box  on  the  table  by  her  bed.  Eve- 
sham  took  her  gently  by  the  arms  and  lifted  her 
back  across  the  puddles  to  the  stoop. 

As  the  chaise  drove  off,  she  went  back  to  the  sit 
ting-room  and  crouched  on  the  rug,  her  wet  hair 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  J2i 

shining  in  the  firelight.  She  took  out  her  chickens 
one  by  one  and  held  them  under  her  chin,  with 
tender  words  and  finger-touches.  If  September 
chickens  have  hearts  as  susceptible  as  their  bodies, 
Dorothy's  orphans  must  have  been  imperilled  by 
her  caresses. 

"  Look  here,  Dorothy  !  Where's  my  trowsers  ?" 
cried  Shep,  opening  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

Reuby  was  behind  him,  fully  arrayed  in  the 
aforesaid  articles,  and  carrying  the  bedroom  can 
dle. 

"  Here  they  are — with  a  needle  in  them,"  said 
Dorothy.  "  What  are  you  getting  up  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night  for  ?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  time  somebody's  up.  Who's 
that  man  driving  off  our  cows  ?" 

"  Goosey  !  It's  Walter  Evesham's  man.  He 
came  for  mother  and  all  of  us,  and  he's  taken  old 
John  and  the  cows  to  save  us  so  much  foddering." 

11  Ain't  we  going  too  ?" 

14  I  don't  see  why  we  should,  just  because  there 
happens  to  be  a  little  water  in  the  kitchen.  I've 
often  seen  it  come  in  there  before." 

"  Well,  thee  never  saw  anything  like  this  before 
— nor  anybody  else,  either,"  said  Shep. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Reuby  ;  "  I  wish  there'd 
come  a  reg'lar  flood.  We  could  climb  up  in  the 
mill-loft  and  go  sailin'  down  over  Jordan's  mead 
ows.  Wouldn't  Luke  Jordan  open  that  big  mouth 
of  his  to  see  us  heave  in  sight  about  cock-crow — 


122  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

three  sheets  in  the  wind,  and  the  old  tackle 
a-swingin'  !" 

"  Do  hush  !"  said  Dorothy.  "  We  may  have  to 
try  it  yet/' 

"  There's  an  awful  roarin'  from  our  window," 
said  Shep.  "  Thee  can't  half  hear  it  down  here. 
Come  out  on  the  stoop.  The  old  ponds  have  got 
their  dander  up  this  time." 

They  opened  the  door  and  listened,  standing 
together  on  the  low  step.  There  was,  indeed,  a 
hoarse  murmur  from  the  hills  which  grew  louder 
as  they  listened. 

"  Now  she's  comin'  !  There  goes  the  stable- 
door  !  There  was  only  one  hinge  left,  anyway," 
said  Reuby.  "  Mighty  !  Look  at  that  wave  !" 

It  crashed  through  the  gate,  swept  across  the 
garden,  and  broke  at  their  feet,  sending  a  thin 
sheet  of  water  over  the  floor  and  stoop. 

"  Now  it's  gone  into  the  entry.  Why  didn't 
thee  shut  the  door,  Shep  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  we'd  better  clear  out,  anyhow. 
Let's  go  over  to  the  mill.  Say,  Dorothy,sha'n't  we?" 

"  Wait.     There  comes  another  wave  !" 

The  second  onset  was  not  so  violent,  but  they 
hastened  to  gather  together  a  few  blankets,  and 
the  boys  filled  their  pockets,  with  a  delightful  sense 
of  unusualness  and  peril,  almost  equal  to  a  ship 
wreck  or  an  attack  by  Indians.  Dorothy  took  her 
unlucky  chickens  under  her  cloak  and  they  made  a 
rush,  all  together,  across  the  road  and  up  the  slope 
to  the  mill. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  123 

"  Why  didn't  we  think  to  bring  a  lantern  ?"  said 
Dorothy,  as  they  huddled  together  on  the  platform 
of  the  scale.  "  Will  thee  go  back  after  one,  Shep  ?" 

"  If  Reuby'll  go,  too." 

"  Well,  my  legs  are  wet  enough  now  !  What's  the 
use  of  a  lantern  ?  Mighty  Moses  !  What's  that?" 

"  The  old  mill's  got  under  weigh  !"  cried  Shep. 
"She's  going  to  tune  up  for  Kingdom  Come  !" 

A  furious  head  of  water  was  rushing  along  the 
race.  The  great  wheel  creaked  and  swung  over, 
and  with  a  shudder  the  old  mill  awoke  from  its 
long  sleep.  The  cogs  clenched  their  teeth,  the 
shafting  shook  and  rattled,  the  stones  whirled 
merrily  round. 

"  Now  she  goes  it  !"  cried  Shep,  as  the  humming 
increased  to  a  tremor,  and  the  tremor  to  a  wild, 
unsteady  din,  till  the  timbers  shook  and  the  bolts 
and  windows  rattled.  "  I  just  wish  father  could 
hear  them  old  stones  hum." 

"  Oh,  this  is  awful  !"  said  Dorothy.  She  was 
shivering,  and  sick  with  terror  at  this  unseemly 
midnight  revelry  of  her  grandfather's  old  mill.  It 
was  as  if  it  had  awakened  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  and 
given  itself  up  to  a  wild  travesty  of  its  years  of 
peaceful  work. 

Shep  was  creeping  about  in  the  darkness. 

"  Look  here  !  We've  got  to  stop  this  clatter 
somehow.  The  stones  are  hot  now.  The  whole 
thing'll  burn  up  like  tinder  if  we  can't  chock  her 
wheels." 

"  Shep  !     Does  thee  mean  it  ?" 


124  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

"  Thee'll  see  if  I  don't.  Thee  won't  need  any 
lantern  either." 

"  Can't  we  break  away  the  race  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  a  way  to  stop  it.  There's  the  tip- 
trough,  but  it's  down-stairs,  and  we  can't  reach 
the  pole." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  It's  outside,  thee  knows.  Thee'll  get  awful 
wef,  Dorothy." 

"Well,  I'd  just  as  soon  be  drowned  as  burned 
up.  Come  with  me  to  the  head  of  the  stairs." 

They  felt  their  way  hand  in  hand  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  Dorothy  went  down  alone.  She  had  for 
gotten  about  the  "  tip-trough,"  but  she  understood 
its  significance.  In  a  few  moments  a  cascade  shot 
out  over  the  wheel,  sending  the  water  far  into  the 
garden. 

11  Right  over  my  chrysanthemum  bed  !"  sighed 
Dorothy. 

The  wheel  swung  slower  and  slower,  the  mock 
ing  tumult  subsided,  and  the  old  mill  sank  into 
sleep  again. 

There  was  nothing  now  to  drown  the  roaring  of 
the  floods  and  the  steady  drive  of  the  storm. 

"  There's  a  lantern,"  Shep  called  from  the  door. 
He  had  opened  the  upper  half,  and  was  shielding 
himself  behind  it.  "  I  guess  it's  Evesham  coming 
back  for  us.  He's  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  fellow, 
after  all  ;  don't  thee  think  so,  Dorothy  ?  He  owes 
us  something  for  drowning  us  out  at  the  sheep- 
washing." 


FRIEND  BARTON  S  CONCERN.  125 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  said  Dorothy,  as 
Evesham  swung  himself  over  the  half-door,  and  his 
lantern  showed  them  in  their  various  phases  of 
wetness. 

"  There's  a  big  leak  in  the  lower  dam  !  I've 
been  afraid  of  it  all  along  ;  there's  something 
wrong  in  the  principle  of  the  thing/' 

Dorothy  felt  as  if  he  had  called  her  grandfather 
a  fraud,  and  her  father  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 
She  had  grown  up  in  the  belief  that  the  mill-dams 
were  part  of  Nature's  original  plan,  in  laying  the 
foundations  of  the  hills  ; — but  it  was  no  time  to  be 
resentful,  and  the  facts  were  against  her. 

"  Dorothy,"  said  Evesham,  as  he  tucked  the 
buffalo  about  her,  ''this  is  the  second  time  I've 
tried  to  save  you  from  drowning,  but  you  never 
will  wait  !  JFm  all  ready  to  be  a  hero,  but  you 
won't  be  a  heroine." 

"I'm  too  practical  for  a  heroine,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  There  !  I've  forgotten  my  chickens." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it  !  Those  chickens  were  a  mis 
take.  They  oughtn't  to  be  perpetuated." 

Youth  and  happiness  can  stand  a  great  deal  of 
cold  water  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Rachel  Barton  should  be  especially  benefited  by 
her  night  journey  through  the  floods.  Evesham 
waited  in  the  hall  when  he  heard  the  door  of  her 
room  open  next  morning.  Dorothy  came  slowly 
down  the  stairs  ;  he  knew  by  her  lingering  step 
and  the  softly  closed  door  that  she  was  not  happy. 

"  Mother  is  very  sick,"  she  answered  his  inquiry. 


126  FRIEND   BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  It  is  like  the  turn  of  inflammation  and  rheuma 
tism  she  had  once  before.  It  will  be  very  slow, — 
and  oh  !  it  is  such  suffering  !  Why  do  the  best 
women  in  the  world  have  to  suffer  so  ?" 

|P 

;<  Will  you  let  me  talk  things  over  with  you  after 
breakfast,  Dorothy?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  she  said  ;  "  there  is  so  much  to  do 
and  think  about.  I  wish  father  would  come  home  !" 

The  tears  came  into  Dorothy's  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him.  Rest — such  as  she  had  never  known,  or 
felt  the  need  of  till  now — and  strength  immeasur 
able,  since  it  would  multiply  her  own  by  an  un 
known  quantity,  stood  within  reach  of  her  hand, 
but  she  might  not  put  it  out  !  And  Evesham  was 
dizzy  with  the  struggle  between  longing  and  reso 
lution. 

He  had  braced  his  nerves  for  a  long  and  hungry 
waiting,  but  fate  had  yielded  suddenly.; — the 
floods  had  brought  her  to  him, — his  flotsam  and 
jetsam,  more  precious  than  all  the  guarded  treas 
ures  of  the  earth.  She  had  come,  with  all  her  girl 
ish,  unconscious  beguilements,  and  all  her  womanly 
cares,  and  anxieties  too.  He  must  strive  against  her 
sweetness,  while  he  helped  her  to  bear  her  burdens. 

"  Now  about  the  boys,  Dorothy,"  he  said  two 
hours  later,  as  they  stood  together  by  the  fire  in 
the  low,  oak-finished  room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
which  was  his  office  and  book-room.  The  door 
was  ajar,  so  Dorothy  might  hear  her  mother's  bell. 
"  Don't  you  think  they  had  better  be  sent  to  school 
somewhere  ?" 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  127 

"  Yes,"  said  Dorothy,  "  they  ought  to  go  to 
school — but — well,  I  may  as  well  tell  thee  the 
truth  !  There's  very  little  to  do  it  with.  We've 
had  a  poor  summer.  I  suppose  I've  managed 
badly,  and  mother  has  been  sick  a  good  while." 

"  You've  forgotten  about  the  pond-rent,  Doro 
thy." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  flush  ;  "  I  hadn't 
forgotten  it  ;  but  I  couldn't  ask  thee  for  it  !" 

"  I  spoke  to  your  father  about  monthly  pay 
ments  ;  but  he  said  better  leave  it  to  accumulate 
for  emergencies.  Shouldn't  you  call  this  an  *  emer 
gency,'  Dorothy?" 

"  But  does  thee  think  we  ought  to  ask  rent  for  a 
pond  that  has  all  leaked  away  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  pond  enough  left,  and  I've  used  it 
a  dozen  times  over  this  summer  !  I  would  be 
ashamed  to  tell  you,  Dorothy,  how  my  horn  has 
been  exalted  in  your  father's  absence.  However, 
retribution  has  overtaken  me  at  last  ;  I'm  responsi 
ble,  you  know,  for  all  the  damage  last  night.  It 
was  in  the  agreement  that  I  should  keep  up  the 
dams." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Dorothy  ;  "  is  thee  sure  ?" 

Evesham  laughed. 

"  If  your  father  were  like  any  other  man,  Doro 
thy,  he'd  make  me  '  sure,'  when  he  gets  home  !  I 
will  defend  myself  to  this  extent  :  I've  patched  and 
propped  them  all  summer,  after  every  rain,  and 
tried  to  provide  for  the  fall  storms  ;  but  there's  a 
flaw  in  the  original  plan — " 


128  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  Thee  said  that  once  before,"  said  Dorothy. 
"  I  wish  thee  wouldn't  say  it  again." 

"  Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  love  those  old  mill-dams  !  I've  trot 
ted  over  them  ever  since  I  could  walk  alone  !" 

"  You  shall  trot  over  them  still  !  We  will  make 
them  as  strong  as  the  everlasting  hills.  They  shall 
outlast  our  time,  Dorothy/' 

"  Well,  about  the  rent,"  said  Dorothy.  "  I'm 
afraid  it  will  not  take  us  through  the  winter,  unless 
there  is  something  I  can  do.  Mother  couldn't  pos 
sibly  be  moved  now,  and  if  she  could,  it  will  be 
months  before  the  house  is  fit  to  live  in.  But  we 
cannot  stay  here  in  comfort,  unless  thy  mother  will 
let  me  make  up  in  some  way.  Mother  will  not 
need  me  all  the  time,  and  I  know  thy  mother  hires 
women  to  spin." 

"  She'll  let  you  do  all  you  like,  if  it  will  make 
you  any  happier.  But  you  don't  know  how  much 
money  is  coming  to  you.  Come,  let  us  look  over 
the  figures." 

He  lowered  the  lid  of  the  black  mahogany  secre 
tary,  placed  a  chair  for  Dorothy,  and  opened  a 
great  ledger  before  her,  bending  down,  with  one 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  the  other  turning 
the  leaves  of  the  ledger.  Considering  the  index, 
and  the  position  of  the  letter  B  in  the  alphabet,  he 
was  a  long  time  finding  his  place.  Dorothy  looked 
out  of  the  window,  over  the  tops  of  the  yellowing 
woods,  to  the  gray  and  turbid  river  below.  Where 
the  hemlocks  darkened  the  channel  of  the  glen,  she 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  129 

heard  the  angry  floods  rushing  down.  The  form 
less  rain  mists  hung  low,  and  hid  the  opposite 
shore. 

"  See  !"  said  Evesham,  with  his  finger  wander 
ing  rather  vaguely  down  the  page.  '  Your  father 
went  away  on  the  third  of  May.  The  first  month's 
rent  came  due  on  the  third  of  June.  That  was  the 
day  I  opened  the  gate  and  let  the  water  down  on 
you,  Dorothy.  I'm  responsible  for  everything,  you 
see, — even  for  the  old  ewe  that  was  drowned  !" 

His  words  came  in  a  dream  as  he  bent  over  her, 
resting  his  unsteady  hand  heavily  on  the  ledger. 

Dorothy  laid  her  cheek  on  the  date  she  could  not 
see,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Don't — please  don't  !"  he  said,  straightening 
himself,  and  locking  his  hands  behind  him.  "  I 
am  human,  Dorothy  I" 

The  weeks  of  Rachel's  sickness  that  followed 
were  perhaps  the  best  discipline  Evesham' s  life  had 
ever  known.  He  held  the  perfect  flower  of  his 
bliss,  unclosing  in  his  hand  ;  yet  he  might  barely 
permit  himself  to  breathe  its  fragrance  !  His 
mother  had  been  a  strong  and  prosperous  woman  ; 
there  was  little  he  could  ever  do  for  her.  It  was 
well  for  him  to  feel  the  weight  of  helpless  infirmity 
in  his  arms,  as  he  lifted  Dorothy's  mother  from 
side  to  side  of  her  bed,  while  Dorothy's  hands 
smoothed  the  coverings.  It  was  well  for  him  to 
see  the  patient  endurance  of  suffering,  such  as  his 
youth  and  strength  defied.  It  was  bliss  to  wait  on 
Dorothy,  and  follow  her  with  little  watchful  horn- 


130  FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

ages,  received  with  a  shy  wonder  which  was  deli 
cious  to  him, — for  Dorothy's  nineteen  years  had 
been  too  fall  of  service  to  others  to  leave  much 
room  for  dreams  of  a  kingdom  of  her  own.  Her 
silent  presence  in  her  mother's  sick-room  awed 
him.  Her  gentle,  decisive  voice  and  ways,  her 
composure  and  unshaken  endurance  through  nights 
of  watching  and  days  of  anxious  confinement  and 
toil,  gave  him  a  new  reverence  for  the  mysteries  of 
her  unfathomable  womanhood. 

The  time  of  Friend  Barton's  return  drew  near. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  Dorothy  welcomed  it 
with  a  little  dread,  and  Evesham  did  not  welcome 
it  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  thought  of  it 
roused  all  his  latent  obstinacy  and  aggressiveness. 
The  first  day  or  two  after  the  momentous  arrival 
wore  a  good  deal  upon  every  member  of  the  family, 
except  Margaret  Evesham,  who  was  provided  with 
a  philosophy  of  her  own,  which  amounted  almost 
to  a  gentle  obtuseness,  and  made  her  a  comfortable 
non-conductor,  preventing  more  electric  souls  from 
shocking  each  other. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  Dorothy 
came  out  of  her  mother's  room  with  a  tray  of 
empty  dishes  in  her  hands.  She  saw  Evesham  at 
the  stair-head  and  hovered  about  in  the  shadowy 
part  of  the  hall  till  he  should  go  down. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "I'm  waiting  for  you." 
He  took  the  tray  from  her  and  rested  it  on  the 
banisters.  "  Your  father  and  I  have  talked  over 
all  the  business.  He's  got  the  impression  I'm  one 


FRIEND  BARTON'S   CONCERN.  131 

of  the  most  generous  fellows  in  the  world.  I  in 
tend  to  let  him  rest  in  that  delusion  for  the  pres 
ent.  Now  may  I  speak  to  him  about  something 
else,  Dorothy  ?  Have  1  not  waited  long  enough 
for  my  heart's  desire  ?" 

"Take  care!"  said  Dorothy,  softly,— "  thee'  11 
upset  the  tea-cups  I" 

"  Confound  the  tea-cups  !"  He  stooped  to  place 
the  irrelevant  tray  on  the  floor,  but  now  Dorothy 
was  half-way  down  the  staircase.  He  caught  her 
on  the  landing,  and  taking  both  her  hands,  drew 
her  down  on  the  step  beside  him. 

"  Dorothy,  this  is  the  second  time  you've  taken 
advantage  of  my  unsuspicious  nature  !  This  time 
you  shall  be  punished  !  You  needn't  try  to  hide 
your  face,  you  little  traitor  !  There's  no  repent 
ance  in  you  !" 

"  If  I'm  to  be  punished  there's  no  need  of  repent 
ance." 

11  Dorothy,  do  you  know,  I've  never  heard  you 
speak  my  name,  except  once,  when  you  were  angry 
with  me." 

"  When  was  that  ?" 

"  The  night  I  caught  you  at  the  gate.  You  said, 
1  I  would  rather  have  one  of  those  dumb  brutes  for 
company  than  thee,  Walter  Evesham.'  You  said 
it  in  the  fiercest  little  voice  !  Even  the  '  thee  ' 
sounded  as  if  you  hated  me." 

"  I  did,"  said  Dorothy  promptly.  "  I  had  rea 
son  to." 

"  Do  you  hate  me  now,  Dorothy  ?" 


132  FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN. 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  did  then." 

"  What  an  implacable  little  Quaker  you  are  !" 

"  A  tyrant  is  always  hated,"  said  Dorothy,  trying 
to  release  her  hands. 

"  If  you  will  look  in  my  eyes,  Dorothy,  and  call 
me  by  my  name,  just  once, — I'll  let  '  thee'  go." 

"  Walter  Evesham  \"  said  Dorothy,  with  great 
firmness  and  decision. 

"  No  !  that  won't  do  !  You  must  look  at^me, — 
and  say  it  softly, — in  a  little  sentence,  Dorothy  !" 

"  Will  thee  please  let  me  go,  Walter  ?" 

Walter  Evesham  was  a  man  of  his  word,  but  as 
Dorothy  sped  away,  he  looked  as  if  he  wished  he 
were  not. 

The  next  evening,  Friend  Barton  sat  by  his 
wife's  easy-chair,  drawn  into  the  circle  of  firelight, 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  between 
his  hands. 

The  worn  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head  had 
widened  considerably  during  the  summer,  but 
Rachel  looked  stronger  and  brighter  than  she  had 
for  many  a  day.  There  was  even  a  little  flush  on 
her  cheek,  but  that  might  have  come  from  the  ex 
citement  of  a  long  talk  with  her  husband. 

"I'm  sorry  thee  takes  it  so  hard,  Thomas  ;  I  was 
afraid  thee  would.  But  the  way  didn't  seem  to 
open  for  me  to  do  much.  I  can  see  now,  that 
Dorothy's  inclinations  have  been  turning  this  way 
for  some  time,  though  it's  not  likely  she  would 
own  it,  poor  child  ;  and  Walter  Evesham' s  not  one 
who  is  easily  gainsayed.  If  thee  could  only  feel 


FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN.  133 

differently  about  it,  I  can't  say  but  it  would  make 
me  very  happy  to  see  Dorothy's  heart  satisfied. 
Can't  thee  bring  thyself  into  unity  with  it,  father  ? 
He's  a  nice  young  man.  They're  nice  folks.  Thee 
can't  complain  of  the  blood.  Margaret  Evesham 
tells  me  a  cousin  of  hers  married  one  of  the  Law 
rences,  so  we  are  kind  of  kin,  after  all." 

"  I  don't  complain  of  the  blood  ;  they're  well 
enough  placed  as  far  as  the  world  is  concerned  ! 
But  their  ways  are  not  our  ways,  Rachel  !  Their 
faith  is  not  our  faith  !" 

"  Well  !  I  can't  see  such  a  very  great  difference, 
come  to  live  among  them  !  '  By  their  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them/  To  comfort  the  widow  and  the 
fatherless,  and  keep  ourselves  unspotted  from  the 
world  ! — thee's  always  preached  that,  father  !  I 
really  can't  see  any  more  worldliness  here  than 
among  many  households  with  us, — and  I'm  sure  if 
we  haven't  been  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  this 
summer,  we've  been  next  to  it  !" 

Friend  Barton  raised  his  head  a  little,  and  rested 
his  forehead  on  his  clasped  hands. 

"  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  look  at  that  !"  He  pointed 
upward  to  an  ancient  sword  with  belt  and  trap 
pings,  which  gleamed  on  the  panelled  chimney- 
piece — crossed  by  an  old  queen's  arm.  Evesham 
had  given  up  his  large  sunny  room  to  Dorothy's 
mother,  but  he  had  not  removed  all  his  lares  and 
penates. 

"Yes,  dear;  that's  his  grandfather's  sword — 
Colonel  Evesham,  who  was  killed  at  Saratoga  !" 


134  FRIEND   BARTON'S   CONCERN. 

"  Why  does  he  hang  up  that  thing  of  abomina 
tion  for  a  light  and  a  guide  to  his  footsteps,  if  his 
way  be  not  far  from  ours  ?" 

"  Why,  father  !  Colonel  Evesham  was  a  good 
man  ! — I  dare  say  he  fought  for  the  same  reason 
that  thee  preaches — because  he  felt  it  his  duty  !" 

"  I  find  no  fault  with  him,  Rachel.  Doubtless  he 
followed  his  light,  as  thee  says  ;  but  he  followed  it 
in  better  ways  too.  He  cleared  land  and  built  a 
homestead  and  a  meeting-house.  Why  don't  his 
grandson  hang  up  his  old  broad-ax  and  plough 
share,  and  worship  them,  if  he  must  have  idols,  in 
stead  of  that  symbol  of  strife  and  bloodshed.  Does 
thee  want  our  Dorothy's  children  to  grow  up  un 
der  the  shadow  of  that  sword  ?" 

There  was  a  stern  light  of  prophecy  in  the  old 
man's  eyes. 

"  Maybe  Walter  Evesham  would  take  it  down," 
said  Rachel,  leaning  back  wearily  and  closing  her 
eyes.  "  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  to  argue, 
even  if  I  had  the  strength  for  it  ;  but  it  would  hurt 
me  a  good  deal — I  must  say  it — if  thee  denies 
Dorothy  in  this  matter,  Thomas.  It's  a  very  seri 
ous  thing  to  have  old  folks  try  to  turn  young 
hearts  the  way  they  think  they  ought  to  go.  I  re 
member  now, — I  was  thinking  about  it  last  night, 
and  it  all  came  back  as  fresh  !  I,  don't  know  that 
I  ever  told  thee  about  that  young  friend  who 
visited  me  before  I  heard  thee  preach  at  Stony 
Valley  ?  Well  !  father,  he  was  wonderful  pleased 
with  him,  but  I  didn't  feel  any  drawing  that  way. 


FRIEND  BARTON'S  CONCERN.  135 

He  urged  me  a  good  deal,  more  than  was  pleasant 
for  either  of  us.  He  wasn't  at  all  reconciled  to 
thee,  Thomas,  if  thee  remember/' 

11  I  remember,"  said  Thomas  Barton,  "  it  was  an 
anxious  time." 

"  Well  dear,  if  father  had  insisted,  and  sent  thee 
away,  I  can't  say  but  life  would  have  been  a  very 
different  thing  to  me." 

"  I  thank  thee  for  saying  it,  Rachel."  Friend 
Barton's  head  drooped  between  his  hands. 

"  Thee's  suffered  much  through  me  ;  thee's  had 
a  hard  life,  but  thee's  been  well  beloved." 

The  flames  leaped  and  flickered  in  the  chimney, 
they  touched  the  wrinkled  hands,  whose  only 
beauty  was  in  their  deeds  ;  they  crossed  the  room 
and  lit  the  pillows  where,  for  three  generations, 
young  heads  had  dreamed,  and  gray  heads  had 
watched  and  suffered  ;  then  they  mounted  to  the 
chimney  and  struck  a  gleam  from  the  sword. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  Rachel,  "  what  answer  is 
thee  going  to  give  Walter  Evesham  ?" 

"  I  shall  say  no  more,  my  dear.  Let  the  young 
folks  have  their  way.  There's  strife  and  conten 
tion  enough  in  the  world  without  my  stirring  up 
more.  And  it  may  be  I'm  resisting  the  Master's 
will  ;  I  left  her  in  His  care  :  this  may  be  His  way 
of  dealing  with  her." 

Walter  Evesham  did  not  take  down  his  grand 
father's  sword.  Fifty  years  later  another  went  up 
beside  it, — the  sword  of  a  young  Evesham  who 
never  left  the  field  of  Shiloh  ;  and  beneath  them 


136  FRIEND  BARTON'S    CONCERN. 

both  hangs  the  portrait  of  the  Quaker  grandmother, 
Dorothy  Evesham,  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine. 

The  golden  ripples,  silver  now,  are  hidden  under 
a  "  round-eared  cap,"  the  quick  flush  has  faded  in 
her  cheek,  and  fold  upon  fold  of  snowy  gauze  and 
creamy  silk  are  crossed  over  the  bosom  that 
thrilled  to  the  fiddles  of  Slocum's  barn.  She  has 
found  the  cool  grays  and  the  still  waters  ;  but  on 
Dorothy's  children  rests  the  "  Shadow  of  the 
Sword  "  ! 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

BY  J.  W.  DEFOREST. 


A  CERTAIN  fallen  angel  (politeness  toward  his 
£\.  numerous  and  influential  friends  forbids  me 
to  mention  his  name  abruptly)  lately  entered  into 
the  body  of  Mr.  Ananias  Pullwool,  of  Washing 
ton,  D.  C. 

As  the  said  body  was  a  capacious  one,  having 
been  greatly  enlarged  circumferentially  since  it  ac 
quired  its  full  longitude,  there  was  accommodation 
in  it  for  both  the  soul  of  Pullwool  himself  (it  was  a 
very  little  one)  and  for  his  distinguished  visitant. 
Indeed,  there  was  so  much  room  in  it  that  they 
never  crowded  each  other,  and  that  Pullwool 
hardly  knew,  if  he  even  so  much  as  mistrusted, 
that  there  was  a  chap  in  with  him.  But  other 
people  must  have  been  aware  of  this  double  tenant 
ry,  or  at  least  must  have  been  shrewdly  suspicious 
of  it,  for  it  soon  became  quite  common  to  hear  fel 
lows  say,  "  Pullwool  has  got  the  Devil  in  him." 

**#  Atlantic  Monthly,  December,  1872. 


138  AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

There  was,  indeed,  a  remarkable  change  —  a 
change  not  so  much  moral  as  physical  and  mental 
— in  this  gentleman's  ways  of  deporting  and  be 
having  himself.  From  being  logy  in  movement 
and  slow  if  not  absolutely  dull  in  mind,  he  became 
wonderfully  agile  and  energetic.  He  had  been  a 
lobbyist,  and  he  remained  a  lobbyist  still,  but  such 
a  different  one,  so  much  more  vigorous,  eager, 
clever,  and  impudent,  that  his  best  friends  (if  he 
could  be  said  to  have  any  friends)  scarcely  knew 
him  for  the  same  Pullwool.  His  fat  fingers  were 
in  the  buttonholes  of  Congressmen  from  the  time 
when  they  put  those  buttonholes  on  in  the  morn 
ing  to  the  time  when  they  took  them  off  at  night. 
He  seemed  to  be  at  one  and  the  same  moment 
treating  some  honorable  member  in  the  bar-room 
of  the  Arlington  and  running  another  honorable 
member  to  cover  in  the  committee-rooms  of  the 
Capitol.  He  log-rolled  bills  which  nobody  else 
believed  could  be  log-rolled-,  and  he  pocketed  fees 
which  absolutely  and  point-blank  refused  to  go  into 
other  people's  pockets.  During  this  short  period 
of  his  life  he  was  the  most  successful  and  famous 
lobbyist  in  Washington,  and  the  most  sought  after 
by  the  most  rascally  and  desperate  claimants  of 
unlawful  millions. 

But,  like  many  another  man  who  has  the  Devil 
in  him,  Mr.  Pullwool  ran  his  luck  until  he  ran 
himself  into  trouble.  An  investigating  committee 
pounced  upon  him  ;  he  was  put  in  confinement  for 
refusing  to  answer  questions  ;  his  filchings  were 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  139 

held  up  to  the  execration  of  the  envious  both  by 
virtuous  members  and  a  virtuous  press  ;  and  when 
he  at  last  got  out  of  durance  he  found  it  good  to 
quit  the  District  of  Columbia  for  a  season.  Thus 
it  happened  that  Mr.  Pullwool  and  his  eminent 
lodger  took  the  cars  and  went  to  and  fro  upon  the 
earth  seeking  what  they  might  devour. 

In  the  course  of  their  travels  they  arrived  in  a 
little  State,  which  may  have  been  Rhode  Island, 
or  may  have  been  Connecticut,  or  may  have  been 
one  of  the  Pleiades,  but  which  at  all  events  had 
two  capitals.  Without  regard  to  Morse's  Gazet 
teer,  or  to  whatever  other  Gazetteer  may  now  be 
in  currency,  we  shall  affirm  that  one  of  these  capi 
tals  was  called  Slowburg  and  the  other  Fastburg. 
For  some  hundreds  of  years  (let  us  say  five  hundred, 
in  order  to  be  sure  and  get  it  high  enough)  Slow- 
burg  and  Fastburg  had  shared  between  them,  turn 
and  turn  about,  year  on  and  year  off,  all  the  gu 
bernatorial  and  legislative  pomps  and  emoluments 
that  the  said  State  had  to  bestow.  On  the  ist  of 
April  of  every  odd  year  the  governor,  preceded 
by  citizen  soldiers,  straddling  or  curvetting 
through  the  mud  —  the  governor,  followed  by 
twenty  barouches  full  of  eminent  citizens,  who 
were  not  known  to  be  eminent  at  any  other  time, 
but  who  made  a  rush  for  a  ride  on  this  occasion  as 
certain  old  ladies  do  at  funerals — the  governor, 
taking  off  his  hat  to  pavements  full  of  citizens  of 
all  ages,  sizes,  and  colors,  who  did  not  pretend  to 
be  eminent — the  governor,  catching  a  fresh  cold  at 


140  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

every  corner,  and  wishing  the  whole  thing  were 
passing  at  the  equator, — the  governor  triumph 
antly  entered  Slowburg,  —  observe,  Slowburg, — 
read  his  always  enormously  long  message  there, 
and  convened  the  legislature  there.  On  the  ist  of 
April  of  every  even  year  the  same  governor,  or  a 
better  one  who  had  succeeded  him,  went  through 
the  same  ceremonies  in  Fastburg.  Each  of  these 
capitals  boasted,  or  rather  blushed  over,  a  shabby 
old  barn  of  a  State-House,  and  each  of  them  main 
tained  a  company  of  foot-guards  and  ditto  of 
horse-guards,  the  latter  very  loose  in  their  saddles. 
In  each  the  hotels  and  boarding-houses  had  a  full 
year  and  a  lean  year,  according  as  the  legislature 
sat  in  the  one  or  in  the  other.  In  each  there  was 
a  loud  call  for  fresh  shad  and  stewed  oysters,  or  a 
comparatively  feeble  call  for  fresh  shad  and  stewed 
oysters,  under  the  same  biennial  conditions. 

Such  was  the  oscillation  of  grandeur  and  power 
between  the  two  cities.  It  was  an  old-time  ar 
rangement,  and  like  many  other  old-fashioned 
things,  as  for  instance  wood  fires  in  open  fire 
places,  it  had  not  only  its  substantial  merits  but  its 
superficial  inconveniences.  Every  year  certain  an 
cient  officials  were  obliged  to  pack  up  hundreds  of 
public  documents  and  expedite  them  from  Fastburg 
to  Slowburg,  or  from  Slowburg  back  to  Fastburg. 
Every  year  there  was  an  expense  of  a  few  dollars 
on  this  account,  which  the  State  treasurer  figured 
up  with  agonies  of  terror,  and  which  the  opposi 
tion  roared  at  as  if  the  administration  could  have 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  141 

helped  it.  The  State-Houses  were  two  mere  de 
formities  of  patched  plaster  and  leprous  whitewash  ; 
they  were  such  shapeless,  graceless,  dilapidated 
wigwams,  that  no  sensitive  patriot  could  look  at 
them  without  wanting  to  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth  ;  and  yet  it  was  not  possible  to  build 
new  ones,  and  hardly  possible  to  obtain  appro 
priations  enough  to  shingle  out  the  weather  ;  for 
Fastburg  would  vote  no  money  to  adorn  Slow- 
burg,  and  Slowburg  was  equally  niggardly  toward 
Fastburg.  The  same  jealousy  produced  the  same 
frugality  in  the  management  of  other  public  insti 
tutions,  so  that  the  patients  of  the  lunatic  asylum 
were  not  much  better  lodged  and  fed  than  the 
average  sane  citizen,  and  the  gallows-birds  in  the 
State's  prison  were  brought  down  to  a  temperance 
which  caused  admirers  of  that  species  of  fowl  to 
tremble  with  indignation.  In  short,  the  two  capi 
tals  were  as  much  at  odds  as  the  two  poles  of  a 
magnet,  and  the  results  of  this  repulsion  were  not 
all  of  them  worthy  of  hysterical  admiration. 

But  advantages  seesawed  with  disadvantages. 
In  this  double-ender  of  a  State  political  jobbery 
was  at  fault,  because  it  had  no  headquarters.  It 
could  not  get  together  a  ring  ;  it  could  not  raise  a 
corps  of  lobbyists.  Such  few  axe-grinders  as  there 
were  had  to  dodge  back  and  forth  between  the 
Fastburg  grindstone  and  the  Slowburg  grindstone, 
without  ever  fairly  getting  their  tools  sharpened. 
Legislature  here  and  legislature  there  ;  it  was  like 
guessing  at  a  pea  between  two  thimbles  ;  you  could 


142  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

hardly  ever  put  your  finger  on  the  right  one.  Then 
what  one  capital  favored  the  other  disfavored  ;  and 
between  them  appropriations  were  kicked  and 
hustled  under  the  table  ;  the  grandest  of  railroad 
schemes  shrunk  into  waste-paper  baskets  ;  in  short, 
the  public  treasury  was  next  door  to  the  unap 
proachable.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  desperate  con 
dition  of  lobbyists  in  this  State,  that,  had  it  con 
tained  a  single  philanthropist  of  the  advanced  radi 
cal  stripe,  he  would  surely  have  brought  in  a  bill 
for  their  relief  and  encouragement. 

Into  the  midst  of  this  happily  divided  community 
dropped  Mr.  Ananias  Pullwool  with  the  Devil  in 
him.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  this  pair  could 
figure  up  anything  worth  pocketing  out  of  the 
problem  of  two  capitals. 

It  was  one  of  the  even  years,  and  the  legislature 
met  in  Fastburg,  and  the  little  city  was  brimful. 
Mr.  Pullwool  with  difficulty  found  a  place  for  him 
self  without  causing  the  population  to  slop  over. 
Of  course  he  went  to  a  hotel,  for  he  needed  to 
make  as  many  acquaintances  as  possible,  and  he 
knew  that  a  bar  was  a  perfect  hot-house  for  ripen 
ing  such  friendships  as  he  cared  for.  He  took 
the  best  room  he  could  get  ;  and  as  soon  as  chance 
favored  he  took  a  better  one,  with  parlor  attached  ; 
and  on  the  sideboard  in  the  parlor  he  always  had 
cigars  and  decanters.  The  result  was  that  in  a  week 
or  so  he  was  on  jovial  terms  with  several  senators, 
numerous  members  of  the  lower  house,  and  all  the 
members  of  the  "  third  house."  But  lobbying  did 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  143 

not  work  in  Fastburg  as  Mr.  Pull  wool  had  found  it 
to  work  in  other  capitals.  He  exhibited  the  most 
dazzling  double-edged  axes,  but  nobody  would 
grind  them  ;  he  pointed  out  the  most  attractive 
and  convenient  of  logs  for  rolling,  but  nobody 
would  put  a  lever  to  them. 

"  What  the  doose  does  this  mean  ?"  he  at  last  in 
quired  of  Mr.  Josiah  Dicker,  a  member  who  had 
smoked  dozens  of  his  cigars  and  drunk  quarts  out 
of  his  decanters.  "  I  don't  understand  this  little 
old  legislature  at  all,  Mr.  Dicker.  Nobody  wants 
to  make  any  money  ;  at  least,  nobody  has  the  spirit 
to  try  to  make  any.  And  yet  the  State  is  full  ; 
never  been  bled  a  drop  ;  full  as  a  tick.  What  does 
it  mean  ?" 

Mr.  Dicker  looked  disconsolate.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  worth  a  moment's  time  to  explain  that  he  could 
not  well  look  otherwise.  Broken  in  fortune  and 
broken  in  health,  he  was  a  failure  and  knew  it. 
His  large  forehead  showed  power,  and  he  was 
in  fact  a  lawyer  of  some  ability  ;  and  still  he 
could  not  support  his  family,  could  not  keep  a 
mould  of  mortgages  from  creeping  all  over  his 
house-lot,  and  had  so  many  creditors  that  he  could 
not  walk  the  streets  comfortably.  The  trouble 
lay  in  hard  drinking,  with  its  resultant  waste  of 
time,  infidelity  to  trust,  and  impatience  of  appli 
cation.  Thin,  haggard,  duskily  pallid,  deeply 
wrinkled  at  forty,  his  black  eyes  watery  and  set  in 
baggy  circles  of  a  dull  brown,  his  lean  dark  hands 
shaky  and  dirty,  his  linen  wrinkled  and  buttonless, 


144  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

his  clothing  frayed  and  unbrushed,  he  was  an  im 
personation  of  failure.  He  had  gone  into  the  legis 
lature  with  a  desperate  hope  of  somehow  finding 
money  in  it,  and  as  yet  he  had  discovered  nothing 
more  than  his  beggarly  three  dollars  a  day,  and  he 
felt  himself  more  than  ever  a  failure.  No  wonder 
that  he  wore  an  air  of  profound  depression,  ap 
proaching  to  absolute  wretchedness  and  threaten 
ing  suicide. 

He  looked  the  more  cast  down  by  contrast  with  the 
successful  Mr.  Pullwool,  gaudily  alight  with  satin 
and  jewelry,  and  shining  with  conceit.  Pullwool, 
by  the  way,  although  a  dandy  (that  is,  such  a 
dandy  as  one  sees  in  gambling-saloons  and  behind 
liquor-bars),  was  far  from  being  a  thing  of  beauty. 
He  was  so  obnoxiously  gross  and  shapeless,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  did  it  on  purpose  and  to  be  irritating. 
His  fat  head  was  big  enough  to  make  a  dwarf  of, 
hunchback  and  all.  His  mottled  cheeks  were  vast 
and  pendulous  to  that  degree  that  they  inspired 
the  imaginative  beholder  with  terror,  as  reminding 
him  of  avalanches  and  landslides  which  might  slip 
their  hold  at  the  slightest  shock  and  plunge  down 
ward  in  a  path  of  destruction.  One  puffy  eyelid 
drooped  in  a  sinister  way  ;  obviously  that  was  the 
eye  that  the  Devil  had  selected  for  his  own  ;  he 
kept  it  well  curtained  for  purposes  of  concealment. 
Looking  out  of  this  peep-hole,  the  Satanic  badger 
could  see  a  short,  thick  nose,  and  by  leaning  forward 
a  little  he  could  get  a  glimpse  of  a  broad  chin  of 
several  stories.  Another  unpleasing  feature  was  a 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  145 

full  set  of  false  teeth,  which  grinned  in  a  ravenous 
fashion  that  was  truly  disquieting,  as  if  they  were 
capable  of  devouring  the  whole  internal  revenue. 
Finally,  this  continent  of  physiognomy  was  diver 
sified  by  a  gigantic  hairy  wart,  which  sprouted 
defiantly  from  the  temple  nearest  the  game  eye,  as 
though  Lucifer  had  accidentally  poked  one  of  his 
horns  through.  Mr.  Dicker,  who  was  a  sensitive, 
squeamish  man  (as  drunkards  sometimes  are, 
through  bad  digestion  and  shaky  nerves),  could 
hardly  endure  the  sight  of  this  wart,  and  always 
wanted  to  ask  Pullwool  why  he  didn't  cut  it  off. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  it  all?"  persisted  the 
Washington  wire-puller,  surveying  the  Fastburg 
wire-puller  with  bland  superiority,  much  as  the  city 
mouse  may  have  surveyed  the  country  mouse. 

"  Two  capitals,"  responded  Dicker,  withdrawing 
his  nervous  glance  from  the  wart,  and  locking  his 
hands  over  one  knee  to  quiet  their  trembling. 

Mr.  Pullwool,  having  the  Old  Harry  in  him,  and 
being  consequently  full  of  all  malice  and  subtlety, 
perceived  at  once  the  full  scope  and  force  of  the 
explanation. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  dropping  gently  back  into  his 
arm-chair,  with  the  plethoric,  soft  movement  of  a 
subsiding  pillow.  The  puckers  of  his  cumbrous 
eyelids  drew  a  little  closer  together  ;  his  bilious 
eyes  peered  out  cautiously  between  them,  like  sal 
low  assassins  watching  through  curtained  win 
dows  ;  for  a  minute  or  so  he  kept  up  what  might 
without  hyperbole  be  called  a  devil  of  a  thinking. 


146  AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

"  I've  got  it,"  he  broke  out  at  last.  "  Dicker,  I 
want  you  to  bring  in  a  bill  to  make  Fastburg  the 
only  capital." 

"  What  is  the  use  ?"  asked  the  legislator,  look 
ing  more  disconsolate,  more  hopeless  than  ever. 
"  Slowburg  will  oppose  it  and  beat  it." 

"  Never  you  mind,"  persisted  Mr.  Pullwool. 
"  You  bring  in  your  little  bill  and  stand  up  for  it 
like  a  man.  There's  money  in  it.  You  don't  see 
it  ?  Well,  I  do  ;  I'm  used  to  seeing  money  in  things  ; 
and  in  this  case  I  see  it  plain.  As  sure  as  whiskey 
is  whiskey,  there's  money  in  it." 

Mr.  PullwooPs  usually  dull  and,  so  to  speak,  ex 
tinct  countenance  was  fairly  alight  and  aflame  with 
exultation.  It  was  almost  a  wonder  that  his  tal 
lowy  person  did  not  gutter  beneath  the  blaze,  like 
an  over-fat  candle  under  the  flaring  of  a  wick  too 
large  for  it. 

"Well,  I'll  bring  in  the  bill,"  agreed  Mr. 
Dicker,  catching  the  enthusiasm  of  his  counsellor 
and  shaking  off  his  lethargy.  He  perceived  a  dim 
promise  of  fees,  and  at  the  sight  his  load  of  de 
spondency  dropped  away  from  him,  as  Christian's 
burden  loosened  in  presence  of  the  cross.  He 
looked  a  little  like  the  confident,  resolute  Tom 
Dicker,  who  twenty  years  before  had  graduated 
from  college  the  brightest,  bravest,  most  eloquent 
fellow  in  his  class,  and  the  one  who  seemed  to 
have  before  him  the  finest  future. 

"  Snacks  !"  said  Mr.  Pullwool. 

At  this  brazen   word  Mr.   Dicker's  countenance 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  147 

fell  again  ;  he  was  ashamed  to  talk  so  frankly 
about  plundering  his  fellow-citizens  ;  "  a  little 
grain  of  conscience  turned  him  sour." 

"  I  will  take  pay  for  whatever  I  can  do  as  a 
lawyer,"  he  stammered. 

"Get  out  !"  laughed  the  Satanic  one.  "You 
just  take  all  there  is  a-going  !  You  need  it  bad 
enough.  I  know  when  a  man's  hard  up.  I  know 
the  signs.  I've  been  as  bad  off  as  you  ;  had  to 
look  all  ways  for  five  dollars  ;  had  to  play  second 
fiddle  and  say  thanky.  But  what  I  offer  you  ain't 
a  second  fiddle.  It's  as  good  a  chance  as  my 
own.  Even  divides.  One  half  to  you  and  one 
half  to  me.  You  know  the  people  and  I  know 
the  ropes.  It's  a  fair  bargain.  What  do  you 
say  ?' ' 

Mr.  Dicker  thought  of  his  decayed  practice  and 
his  unpaid  bills  ;  and  flipping  overboard  his  little 
grain  of  conscience,  he  said,  "  Snacks." 

"  All  right,"  grinned  Pullwool,  his  teeth  gleam 
ing  alarmingly.  "  Word  of  a  gentleman,"  he  added, 
extending  his  pulpy  hand,  loaded  with  ostentatious 
rings,  and  grasping  Dicker's  recoiling  fingers. 
"  Harness  up  your  little  bill  as  quick  as  you  can, 
and  drive  it  like  Jehu.  Fastburg  to  be  the  only  capi 
tal.  Slovvburg  no  claims  at  all,  historical,  geograph 
ical,  or  economic.  The  old  arrangement  a  hum 
bug  ;  as  inconvenient  as  a  fifth  wheel  of  a  coach  ; 
costs  the  State  thousands  of  greenbacks  every  year. 
Figure  it  all  up  statistically  and  dab  it  over  with 
your  shiniest  rhetoric  and  make  a  big  thing  of  it 


148  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

every  way.  That's  what  you've  got  to  do  ;  that's 
your  little  biz.  Fll  tend  to  the  rest." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  where  the  money  is  to  come 
from,"  observed  Mr.  Dicker. 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  veteran  of  the 
lobbies  ;  "  my  name  is  Pullwool,  and  I  know  how 
to  pull  the  wool  over  men's  eyes,  and  then  I  know 
how  to  get  at  their  britches-pockets.  You  bring  in 
your  bill  and  make  your  speech.  Will  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Dicker,  bolting  all  scruples  in 
another  half  tumbler  of  brandy. 

He  kept  his  word.  As  promptly  as  parliamentary 
forms  and  mysteries  would  allow,  there  was  a  bill 
under  the  astonished  noses  of  honorable  lawgivers, 
removing  the  seat  of  legislation  from  Slowburg  and 
centring  it  in  Fastburg.  This  bill  Mr.  Thomas 
Dicker  supported  with  that  fluency  and  fiery  enthu 
siasm  of  oratory  which  had  for  a  time  enabled  him 
to  show  as  the  foremost  man  of  his  State.  Great 
was  the  excitement,  great  the  rejoicing  and  anger. 
The  press  of  Fastburg  sent  forth  shrieks  of  exulta 
tion,  and  the  press  of  Slowburg  responded  with 
growlings  of  disgust.  The  two  capitals  and  the  two 
geographical  sections  which  they  represented  were 
ready  to  fire  Parrott  guns  at  each  other,  without 
regard  to  life  and  property  in  the  adjoining  regions 
of  the  earth.  If  there  was  a  citizen  of  the  little  Com 
monwealth  who  did  not  hear  of  this  bill  and  did  not 
talk  of  it,  it  was  because  that  citizen  was  as  deaf 
as  a  post  and  as  dumb  as  an  oyster.  Ordinary 
political  distinctions  were  forgotten,  and  the  old 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  149 

party-whips  could  not  manage  their  very  wheel- 
horses,  who  went  snorting  and  kicking  over  the 
traces  in  all  directions.  In  short,  both  in  the  legis 
lature  and  out  of  it,  nothing  was  thought  of  but 
the  question  of  the  removal  of  the  capital. 

Among  the  loudest  of  the  agitators  was  Mr. 
Pullwool  ;  not  that  he  cared  one  straw  whether  the 
capital  went  to  Fastburg,  or  to  Slowburg,  or  to 
Ballyhack  ;  but  for  the  money  which  he  thought 
he  saw  in  the  agitation  he  did  care  mightily, 
and  to  get  that  money  he  labored  with  a  zeal 
which  was  not  of  this  world  alone.  At  the  table 
of  his  hotel,  and  in  the  barroom  of  the  same  in 
stitution,  and  in  the  lobbies  of  the  legislative 
hall,  and  in  editorial  sanctums  and  barbers'  shops, 
and  all  other  nooks  of  gossip,  he  trumpeted  the 
claims  of  Fastburg  as  if  that  little  city  were 
the  New  Jerusalem  and  deserved  to  be  the  me 
tropolis  of  the  sidereal  universe.  All  sorts  of 
trickeries,  too  ;  he  sent  spurious  telegrams  and 
got  fictitious  items  into  the  newspapers  ;  he  lied 
through  every  medium  known  to  the  highest  civil 
ization.  Great  surely  was  his  success,  for  the  row 
which  he  raised  was  tremendous.  But  a  row  alone 
was  not  enough  ;  it  was  the  mere  breeze  upon  the 
surface  of  the  waters  ;  the  treasure-ship  below  was 
still  to  be  drawn  up  and  gutted. 

"  It  will  cost  money,"  he  whispered  confidential 
ly  to  capitalists  and  land-owners.  "  We  must  have 
the  sinews  of  war,  or  we  can't  carry  it  on.  There's 
your  city  lots  goin'  to  double  in  value  if  this  bill 


150  AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

goes  through.  What  per  cent  will  you  pay  on  the 
advance?  That's  the  question.  Put  your  hands  in 
your  pockets  and  pull  'em  out  full,  and  put  back 
ten  times  as  much.  It's  a  sure  investment  ;  war 
ranted  to  yield  a  hundred  per  cent  ;  the  safest  and 
biggest  thing  agoing." 

Capitalists  and  land-owners  and  merchants  heark 
ened  and  believed  and  subscribed.  The  slyest  old 
hunks  in  Fastburg  put  a  faltering  forefinger  into 
his  long  pocket-book,  touched  a  greenback  which 
had  been  laid  away  there  as  neatly  as  a  corpse  in  its 
coffin,  and  resurrected  it  for  the  use  of  Mr.  Pull- 
wool.  By  tens,  by  twenties,  by  fifties,  and  by  hun 
dreds  the  dollars  of  the  ambitious  citizens  of  the 
little  metropolis  were  charmed  into  the  portemon- 
naie  of  this  rattlesnake  of  a  lobbyist. 

"  I  never  saw  a  greener  set,"  chuckled  Pull  wool. 
"  By  jiminy,  I  believe  they'd  shell  out  for  a  bill  to 
make  their  town  a  seaport,  if  it  was  a  hundred 
miles  from  a  drop  of  water." 

But  he  was  not  content  with  individual  subscrip 
tions,  and  conscientiously  scorned  himself  until  he 
had  got  at  the  city  treasury. 

;<  The  corporation  must  pony  up,"  he  insisted, 
with  the  mayor.  "  This  bill  is  just  shaking  in  the 
wind  for  lack  of  money.  Fastburg  must  come 
down  with  the  dust.  You  ought  to  see  to  it.  What 
are  you  chief  magistrate  for  ?  Ain't  it  to  tend  to 
the  welfare  of  the  city  ?  Look  here,  now  ;  you  call 
the  common  council  together  ;  secret  session,  you 
understand.  You  call  'em  together  and  let  me  talk 


AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST.  151 

to  'em.  I  want  to  make  the  loons  comprehend  that 
it's  their  duty  to  vote  something  handsome  for  this 
measure." 

The  mayor  hummed  and  hawed  one  way,  and 
then  he  hawed  and  hummed  the  other  way,  and 
the  result  was  that  he  granted  the  request.  There 
was  a  secret  session  in  the  council-room,  with  his 
honor  at  the  top  of  the  long  green  table,  with  a 
row  of  more  or  less  respectable  functionaries  on 
either  side  of  it,  and  with  Mr.  Pullwool  and  the 
Devil  at  the  bottom.  Of  course  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  this  last-named  personage  was  visible 
to  the  others,  or  that  they  had  more  than  a  vague 
suspicion  of  his  presence.  Had  he  fully  revealed 
himself,  had  he  plainly  exhibited  his  horns  and 
hoofs,  or  even  so  much  as  uncorked  his  perfume- 
bottle  of  brimstone,  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
the  city  authorities  would  have  been  exceedingly 
scandalized,  and  they  might  have  adjourned  the 
session.  As  it  was,  seeing  nothing  more  disagree 
able  than  the  obese  form  of  the  lobbyist,  they  list 
ened  calmly  while  he  unfolded  his  project. 

Mr.  Pullwool  spoke  at  length,  and  to  Fastburg 
ears  eloquently.  Fastburg  must  be  the  sole  capital  ; 
it  had  every  claim,  historical,  geographical,  and 
commercial,  to  that  distinction  ;  it  ought,  could, 
would,  and  should  be  the  sole  capital  ;  that  was 
about  the  substance  of  his  exordium. 

"  But,  gentlemen,  it  will  cost,''  he  went  on. 
"  There  is  an  unscrupulous  and  furious  opposition 
to  the  measure.  The  other  side — those  fellows  from 


152  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

Slowburg  and  vicinity — are  putting  their  hands 
into  their  britches-pockets.  You  must  put  your 
hands  into  yours.  The  thing  will  be  worth  millions 
to  Fastburg.  But  it  will  cost  thousands.  Are  you 
ready  to  fork  over  ?  Are  you  ready  ?" 

"  What's  the  figure  ?"  asked  one  of  the  council- 
men.  "  What  do  you  estimate  ?" 

"  Gentlemen,  I  shall  astonish  some  of  you,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Pullvvool,  cunningly.  It  was  well  put  ; 
it  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  shall  astonish  the 
green  ones  ;  of  course  the  really  strong  heads 
among  you  won't  be  in  the  least  bothered."  "  I 
estimate,"  he  continued,  "  that  the  city  treasury 
will  have  to  put  up  a  good  round  sum,  say  a  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars,  be  it  more  or  less." 

A  murmur  of  surprise,  of  chagrin,  and  of  some 
thing  like  indignation  ran  along  the  line  of  official 
mustaches.  "  Nonsense,"  "  The  dickens,"  "  Can't 
be  done,"  "  We  can't  think  of  it,"  broke  out  sev 
eral  councilmen,  in  a  distinctly  unparliamentary 
manner. 

"  Gentlemen,  one  moment,"  pleaded  Pullwool, 
passing  his  greasy  smile  around  the  company,  as 
though  it  were  some  kind  of  refreshment.  "  Look 
at  the  whole  job  ;  it's  a  big  job.  We  must  have 
lawyers  ;  we  must  have  newspapers  in  all  parts  of 
the  State  ;  we  must  have  writers  to  work  up  the 
historical  claims  of  the  city  ;  we  must  have  fellows 
to  buttonhole  honorable  members  ;  we  must  have 
fees  for  honorable  members  themselves.  How  can 
you  do  it  for  less  ?" 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  153 

Then  he  showed  a  schedule  ;  so  much  to  this 
wire-puller  and  that  and  the  other  ;  so  much  apiece 
to  so  many  able  editors  ;  so  much  for  eminent  legal 
counsel  ;  finally,  a  trifle  for  himself.  And  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars  or  thereabouts  was  what 
the  schedule  footed  up,  turn  it  whichever  way  you 
would. 

Of  course  this  common  council  of  Fastburg  did 
not  dare  to  vote  such  a  sum  for  such  a  purpose. 
Mr.  Pullwool  had  not  expected  that  it  would  ;  all 
that  he  had  hoped  for  was  the  half  of  it  ;  but  that 
half  he  got. 

"Did  they  do  it?"  breathlessly  inquired  Tom 
Dicker  of  him,  when  he  returned  to  the  hotel. 

"They  done  it,"  calmly,  yet  triumphantly,  re 
sponded  Mr.  Pullwool. 

"  Thunder  !"  exclaimed  the  amazed  Dicker. 
"  You  are  the  most  extraordinary  man  !  You  must 
have  the  very  Devil  in  you  !" 

Instead  of  being  startled  by  this  alarming  sup- 
position,  Mr.  Pullwool  looked  gratified.  People 
thus  possessed  generally  do  look  gratified  when  the 
possession  is  alluded  to. 

But  the  inspired  lobbyist  did  not  pass  his  time 
in  wearing  an  aspect  of  satisfaction.  When  there 
was  money  to  get  and  to  spend  he  could  run  his  fat 
off  almost  as  fast  as  if  he  were  pouring  it  into 
candle-moulds.  The  ring — the  famous  capital  ring 
of  Fastburg — must  be  seen  to,  its  fingers  greased, 
and  its  energy  quickened.  Before  he  rolled  his 
apple-dumpling  of  a  figure  into  bed  that  night  he 


154  AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

had  interviewed  Smith  and  Brown  the  editors, 
Jones  and  Robinson  the  lawyers,  Smooth  and  Slow 
the  literary  characters,  various  lobbyists,  and  va 
rious  lawgivers. 

"  Work,  gentlemen,  and  capitalize  Fastburg  and 
get  your  dividends,"  was  his  inspiring  message  to 
one  and  all.  He  promised  Smith  and  Brown  ten 
dollars  for  every  editorial,  and  five  dollars  for  every 
humbugging  telegram,  and  two  dollars  for  every 
telling  item.  Jones  and  Robinson  were  to  have  five 
hundred  dollars  apiece  for  concurrent  legal  state 
ments  of  the  claim  of  the  city  ;  Smooth  and  Slow, 
as  being  merely  authors  and  so  not  accustomed 
to  obtain  much  for  their  labor,  got  a  hundred  dollars 
between  them  for  working  up  the  case  historically. 
To  the  lobbyists  and  members  Pullwool  was  mu 
nificent  ;  it  seemed  as  if  those  gentlemen  could 
not  be  paid  enough  for  their  "  influence  ;' '  as  if  they 
alone  had  that  kind  of  time  which  is  money.  Only, 
while  dealing  liberally  with  them,  the  inspired  one 
did  not  forget  himself.  A  thousand  for  Mr.  Sly  ; 
yes,  Mr.  Sly  was  to  receipt  for  a  thousand  ;  but  he 
must  let  half  of  it  stick  to  the  Pullwool  fingers.  The 
same  arrangement  was  made  with  Mr.  Green  and 
Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Bummer  and  Mr.  Pickpurse 
and  Mr.  Buncombe.  It  was  a  game  of  snacks,  half 
to  you  and  half  to  me  ;  and  sometimes  it  was  more 
than  snacks, — a  thousand  for  you  two  and  a  thou 
sand  for  me  too. 

With  such  a  greasing  of  the  wheels,  you  may 
imagine  that  the  machinery  of  the  ring  worked  to 


AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST.  155 

a  charm.  In  the  city  and  in  the  legislature  and 
throughout  the  State  there  was  the  liveliest  buzzing 
and  humming  and  clicking  of  political  wheels  and 
cranks  and  cogs  that  had  ever  been  known  in 
those  hitherto  pastoral  localities.  The  case  of 
Fastburg  against  Slowburg  was  put  in  a  hundred 
ways,  and  proved  as  sure  as  it  was  put.  It  really 
seemed  to  the  eager  burghers  as  if  they  already 
heard  the  clink  of  hammers  on  a  new  State-House 
and  beheld  a  perpetual  legislature  sitting  on  their 
fences  and  curbstones  until  the  edifice  should  be 
finished.  The  great  wire-puller  and  his  gang  of 
stipendiaries  were  the  objects  of  popular  gratitude 
and  adoration.  The  landlord  of  the  hotel  which  Mr. 
Pullwool  patronized  actually  would  not  take  pay 
for  that  gentleman's  board. 

•"  No,  sir  !"  declared  this  simple  Boniface,  turn 
ing  crimson  with  enthusiasm.  "  You  are  going  to 
put  thousands  of  dollars  into  my  purse,  and  I'll 
take  nothing  out  of  yours.  And  any  little  thing  in 
the  way  of  cigars  and  whiskey  that  you  want,  sir, 
why,  call  for  it.  It's  my  treat,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  kindly  smiled  the  great 
man.  ;'  That's  what  I  call  the  square  thing.  Mr. 
Boniface,  you  are  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar  ;  and 
I'll  mention  your  admirable  house  to  my  friends. 
By  the  way,  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  for  a  few 
days." 

"  Going  to  leave  us  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Boniface, 
aghast.  "  I  hope  not  till  this  job  is  put  through." 

"I  must  run  about  a  bit,"  muttered  Pullwool, 


156  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.     . 

confidentially.  "  A  little  turn  through  the  State, 
you  understand,  to  stir  up  the  country  districts. 
Some  of  the  members  ain't  as  hot  as  they  should 
be,  and  I  want  to  set  their  constituents  after  them. 
Nothing  like  getting  on  a  few  deputations." 

"  Oh,  exactly  !"  chuckled  Mr.  Boniface,  ramming 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  cheerfully  jingling 
a  bunch  of  keys  and  a  penknife  for  lack  of  silver. 
It  was  strange  indeed  that  he  should  actually  see 
the  Devil  in  Mr.  Pullwool's  eye  and  should  not 
have  a  suspicion  that  he  was  in  danger  of  being 
humbugged  by  him.  "  And  your  rooms  ?"  he  sug 
gested.  "  How  about  them  ?" 

"  I  keep  them,"  replied  the  lobbyist,  grandly,  as 
if  blaspheming  the  expense — to  Boniface.  "  Our 
friends  must  have  a  little  hole  to  meet  in.  And 
while  you  are  about  it,  Mr.  Boniface,  see  that  they 
get  something  to  drink  and  smoke  ;  and  we'll  settle 
it  between  us." 

"  Pre — cisely  !"  laughed  the  landlord,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  My  treat  !" 

And  so  Mr.  Pullwool,  that  Pericles  and  Lorenzo 
de'  Medici  rolled  in  one,  departed  for  a  season 
from  the  city  which  he  ruled  and  blessed.  Did  he 
run  about  the  State  and  preach  and  crusade  in 
behalf  of  Fastburg,  and  stir  up  the  bucolic  popula 
tions  to  stir  up  their  representatives  in  its  favor  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it  ;  the  place  that  he  went  to  and  the  only 
place  that  he  went  to  was  Slowburg ;  yes,  covering  up 
his  tracks  in  his  usual  careful  style,  he  made  direct 
for  the  rival  of  Fastburg.  What  did  he  propose  to 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  157 

do  there  ?  Oh,  how  can  we  reveal  the  whole  duplicity 
and  turpitude  of  Ananias  Pullwool  ?  The  subject 
is  too  vast  for  a  merely  human  pen  ;  it  requires  the 
literary  ability  of  a  recording  angel.  Well,  we  must 
get  our  feeble  lever  under  this  boulder  of  wicked 
ness  as  we  can,  and  do  our  faint  best  to  expose  all 
the  reptiles  and  slimy  things  beneath  it. 

The  first  person  whom  this  apostle  of  lobbyism 
called  upon  in  Slowburg  was  the  mayor  of  that  tot 
tering  capital. 

"  My  name  is  Pullwool,"  he  said  to  the  official, 
and  he  said  it  with  an  almost  enviable  ease  of  im 
pudence,  for  he  was  used  to  introducing  himself 
to  people  who  despised  and  detested  him.  "  I 
want  to  see  you  confidentially  about  this  capital 
ring  which  is  making  so  much  trouble." 

•"  I  thought  you  were  in  it,"  replied  the  mayor, 
turning  very  red  in  the  face,  for  he  had  heard  of 
Mr.  Pullwool  as  the  leader  of  said  ring  ;  and  being 
an  iracund  man,  he  was  ready  to  knock  his  head 
off. 

"In  it  !"  exclaimed  the  possessed  one.  "  I  wish 
I  was.  It's  a  fat  thing.  More  than  fifty  thousand 
dollars  paid  out  already  !" 

"  Good  gracious  !"  exclaimed  the  mayor  in  de 
spair. 

"  By  the  way,  this  is  between  ourselves,"  added 
Pullwool.  "  You  take  it  so,  I  hope.  Word  of 
honor,  eh  ?" 

"  Why,  if  you  have  anything  to  communicate 
that  will  help  us,  why,  of  course,  I  promise  se- 


158  AN  INSPIRED   LOBBYIST. 

crecy,"  stammered  the  mayor.  "  Yes,  certainly  ; 
word  of  honor/' 

'"  Well,  I've  been  looking  about  among  those 
fellows  a  little,"  continued  Ananias.  "  I've  kept 
my  eyes  and  ears  open.  It's  a  way  I  have.  And 
I've  learned  a  thing  or  two  that  it  will  be  to  your 
advantage  to  know.  Yes,  sir  !  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars  ! — the  city  has  voted  it  and  paid  it,  and  the  ring 
has  got  it.  That's  why  they  are  all  working  so. 
And  depend  upon  it,  they'll  carry  the  legislature 
and  turn  Slowburg  out  to  grass,  unless  you  wake 
up  and  do  something." 

"  By  heavens  !"  exclaimed  the  iracund  mayor, 
turning  red  again.  "  It's  a  piece  of  confounded 
rascality.  It  ought  to  be  exposed." 

"  No,  don't  expose  it,"  put  in  Mr.  Pullwool, 
somewhat  alarmed.  "  That  game  never  works.  Of 
course  they'd  deny  it  and  swear  you  down,  for 
bribing  witnesses  is  as  easy  as  bribing  members. 
I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  Beat  them  at  their  own 
weapons.  Raise  a  purse  that  will  swamp  theirs. 
That's  the  way  the  world  goes.  It's  an  auction. 
The  highest  bidder  gets  the  article." 

Well,  the  result  of  it  all  was  that  the  city  mag 
nates  of  Slowburg  did  just  what  had  been  done  by 
the  city  magnates  of  Fastburg,  only,  instead  of 
voting  fifty  thousand  dollars  into  the  pockets  of  the 
ring,  they  voted  sixty  thousand.  With  a  portion 
of  this  money  about  him,  and  with  authority  to 
draw  for  the  rest  on  proper  vouchers,  Mr.  Pull- 
wool,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  bade  farewell  to 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  159 

his  new  allies.  As  a  further  proof  of  the  ready  wit 
and  solid  impudence  of  this  sublime  politician  and 
model  of  American  statesmen,  let  me  here  intro 
duce  a  brief  anecdote.  Leaving  Slowburg  by  the 
cars,  he  encountered  a  gentleman  from  Fastburg, 
who  saluted  him  with  tokens  of  amazement,  and 
said,  "  What  are  you  doing  here,  Mr.  Pullwool  ?" 

"Oh,  just  breaking  up  these  fellows  a  little," 
whispered  the  man  with  the  Devil  in  him.  "  They 
were  making  too  strong  a  fight.  I  had  to  see  some 
of  them,"  putting  one  hand  behind  his  back  and 
rubbing  his  fingers  together,  to  signify  that  there 
had  been  a  taking  of  bribes.  "  But  be  shady  about 
it.  For  the  sake  of  the  good  cause,  keep  quiet. 
Mum's  the  word." 

The  reader  can  imagine  how  briskly  the  fight 
between  the  two  capitals  reopened  when  Mr.  Pull- 
wool  re-entered  the  lobby.  Slowburg  now  had  its 
adherents,  and  they  struggled  like  men  who  saw 
money  in  their  warfare,  and  they  struggled  not  in 
vain.  To  cut  a  very  long  story  very  short,  to  sum 
the  whole  of  an  exciting  drama  .in  one  sentence,  the 
legislature  kicked  overboard  the  bill  to  make  Fast- 
burg  the  sole  seat  of  government.  Nothing  had 
come  of  the  whole  row,  except  that  a  pair  of  simple 
little  cities  had  spent  over  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  and  that  the  capital  ring,  fighting  on  both 
sides  and  drawing  pay  from  both  sides,  had  lined 
its  pockets,  while  the  great  creator  of  the  ring  had 
crammed  his  to  bursting. 

"What    does    this    mean,    Mr.    Pullwool?"    de~ 


160  AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST. 

manded  the  partially  honest  and  entirely  puzzled 
Tom  Dicker,  when  he  had  discovered  by  an  un 
official  count  of  noses  how  things  were  going. 
"  Fastburghas  spent  all  its  money  for  nothing.  It 
won't  be  sole  capital,  after  all." 

"  I  never  expected  it  would  be,"  replied  Pull, 
wool,  so  tickled  by  the  Devil  that  was  in  him  that 
he  could  not  help  laughing.  "  I  never  wanted  it  to 
be.  Why,  it  would  spoil  the  little  game.  This  is  a 
trick  that  can  be  played  every  year." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dicker,  and  was  dumb 
with  astonishment  for  a  minute. 

"  Didn't  you  see  through  it  before  ?"  grinned  the 
grand  master  of  all  guile  and  subtlety. 

"  I  did  not,"  confessed  Mr,  Dicker,  with  a  mixt 
ure  of  shame  and  abhorrence.  "Well,"  he  pres 
ently  added,  recovering  himself,  "  shall  we  settle  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  are  ready,"  smiled  Pull- 
wool,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  something 
coming  to  him. 

"  And  what,  exactly,  will  be  my  share  ?"  asked 
Dicker,  humbly. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  stared  Pull  wool,  appar 
ently  in  the  extremity  of  amazement. 

"You  said  snacks,  didn't  you?"  urged  Dicker, 
trembling  violently. 

"  Well,  snacks\\.vs>"  replied  Pullwool.  "  Haven't 
you  had  a  thousand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Dicker. 

"  Then  you  owe  me  five  hundred  ?" 

Mr.   Dicker  did  not  faint,  though  he  came  very 


AN  INSPIRED  LOBBYIST.  161 

near  it,  but  he  staggered  out  of  the  room  as  white 
as  a  sheet,  for  he  was  utterly  crushed  by  this  dia 
bolical  impudence. 

That  very  day  Mr.  Pullwool  left  for  Washington, 
and  the  Devil  left  for  his  place,  each  of  them  sure 
to  find  the  other  when  he  wanted  him,  if  indeed 
their  roads  lay  apart. 


LOST  IN  THE  FOG. 

BY  NOAH  BROOKS. 


"  TAOWN  with  your  helm  !  you'll  have  us  hard 

JL.J  and  fast  aground !" 

My  acquaintance  with  Captain  Booclen  was  at 
that  time  somewhat  limited,  and  if  possible  I  knew 
less  of  the  difficult  and  narrow  exit  from  Bolinas 
Bay  than  I  did  of  Captain  Booden.  So  with  great 
trepidation  I  jammed  the  helm  hard  down,  and  the 
obedient  little  Lively  Polly  fell  off  easily,  and  we 
were  over  the  bar  and  gliding  gently  along  under 
the  steep  bluff  of  the  Mesa,  whose  rocky  edge,  ris 
ing  sheer  from  the  beach  and  crowned  with  dry 
grass,  rose  far  above  the  pennon  of  the  little 
schooner.  I  did  not  intend  to  deceive  Captain 
Booden,  but  being  anxious  to  work  my  way  down 
to  San  Francisco,  I  had  shipped  as  "  able  seaman" 
on  the  Lively  Polly,'though  it  was  a  long  day  since  I 
had  handled  a  foresheet  or  anything  bigger  than 


Overland  Monthly,  December,  1868. 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  163 

the  little  plungers  which  hover  about  Bolinas  Bay  ; 
and  latterly  I  had  been  ranching  it  at  Point  Reyes, 
so  what  could  I  know  about  the  bar  and  the  shoals 
of  the  harbor,  I  would  like  to  know  ?  We  had 
glided  out  of  the  narrow  channel  which  is  skirted 
on  one  side  by  a  long  sandspit  that  curves  around 
and  makes  the  southern  and  western  shelter  of  the 
bay,  and  on  the  other  side  by  a  huge  elevated  tongue 
of  table-land,  called  by  the  inhabitants  thereabouts 
the  Mesa.  High,  precipitous,  perpendicular,  level, 
and  dotted  with  farm-houses,  this  singular  bit  of 
land  stretches  several  miles  out  southward  to  sea, 
bordered  with  a  rocky  beach,  and  tapered  off  into 
the  wide  ocean  with  Duxbury  Reef — a  dangerous 
rocky  reef,  curving  down  to  the  southward  and 
almost  always  white  with  foam,  save  when  the  sea 
is  calm,  and  then  the  great  lazy  green  waves  eddy 
noiselessly  over  the  half-hidden  rocks,  or  slip  like 
oil  over  the  dreadful  dangers  which  they  hide. 

Behind  us  was  the  lovely  bay  of  Bolinas,  blue  and 
sparkling  in  the  summer  afternoon  sun,  its  borders 
dotted  with  thrifty  ranches,  and  the  woody  ravines 
and  bristling  Tamalpais  Range  rising  over  all.  The 
tide  was  running  out,  and  only  a  peaceful  swash 
whispered  along  the  level  sandy  beach  on  our  left, 
where  the  busy  sandpiper  chased  the  playful  wave 
as  it  softly  rose  and  fell  along  the  shorje.  On  the 
higher  centre  of  the  sandspit  which  shuts  in  the  bay 
on  that  side,  a  row  of  ashy-colored  gulls  sunned 
themselves,  and  blinked  at  us  sleepily  as  we  drifted 
slowly  out  of  the  channel,  our  breeze  cut  off  by  the 


1 64  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

Mesa  that  hemmed  us  in  on  the  right,  I  have  told 
you  that  I  did  not  much  pretend  to  seamanship,  but 
I  was  not  sorry  that  I  had  taken  passage  on  the 
Lively  Polly,  for  there  is  always  something  novel  and 
fascinating  to  me  in  coasting  a  region  which  I  have 
heretofore  known  only  by  its  hills,  canons,  and  sea- 
beaches.  The  trip  is  usually  made  from  Bolinas  Bay 
to  San  Francisco  in  five  or  six  hours,  when  wind 
and  tide  favor ;  and  I  could  bear  being  knocked 
about  by  Captain  Booden  for  that  length  of  time, 
especially  as  there  was  one  other  hand  on  board — 
"Lanky"  he  was  called — but  whether  a  foremast 
hand  or  landsman  I  do  not  know.  He  had  been 
teaching  school  at  Jaybird  Cafion,  and  was  a  little 
more  awkward  with  the  running  rigging  of  the  Live 
ly  Polly  than  I  was.  Captain  Booden  was,  therefore, 
the  main  reliance  of  the  little  twenty-ton  schooner, 
and  if  her  deck-load  of  firewood  and  cargo  of  butter 
and  eggs  ever  reached  a  market,  the  skilful  and  pro 
fane  skipper  should  have  all  the  credit  thereof. 

The  wind  died  away,  and  the  sea,  before  ruffled 
with  a  wholesale  breeze,  grew  as  calm  as  a  sheet  of 
billowy  glass,  heaving  only  in  long,  gentle  undula 
tions  on  which  the  sinking  sun  bestowed  a  green 
and  golden  glory,  dimmed  only  by  the  white  fog- 
bank  that  came  drifting  slowly  up  from  the  Farra- 
lones,  now  shut  out  from  view  by  the  lovely  haze. 
Captain  Booden  gazed  morosely  on  the  western 
horizon,  and  swore  by  a  big  round  oath  that  we 
should  not  have  a  capful  of  wind  if  that  fog-bank 
did  not  lift.  But  we  were  fairly  out  of  the  bay  ; 


LOST  IN    THE   FOG.  165 

the  Mesa  was  lessening  in  the  distance,  and  as  we 
drifted  slowly  southward  the  red-roofed  buildings 
on  its  level  rim  grew  to  look  like  toy-houses,  and 
we  heard  the  dull  moan  of  the  ebb-tide  on  Duxbury 
Reef  on  our  starboard  bow.  The  sea  grew  dead 
calm  and  the  wind  fell  quite  away,  but  still  we 
drifted  southward,  passing  Rocky  Point  and  peering 
curiously  into  Pilot  Boat  Cove,  which  looked  so 
strangely  unfamiliar  to  me  from  the  sea,  though  I 
had  fished  in  its  trout-brooks  many  a  day,  and  had 
hauled  driftwood  from  the  rocky  beach  to  John 
son's  ranch  in  times  gone  by.  The  tide  turned 
after  sundown,  and  Captain  Booden  thought  we 
ought  to  get  a  bit  of  wind  then  ;  but  it  did  not  come, 
and  the  fog  crept  up  and  up  the  glassy  sea,  rolling 
in  huge  wreaths  of  mist,  shutting  out  the  surface  of 
the  water,  and  finally  the  gray  rocks  of  North 
Heads  were  hidden,  and  little  by  little  the  shore 
was  curtained  from  our  view  and  we  were  becalmed 
in  the  fog. 

To  say  that  the  skipper  swore  would  hardly  de 
scribe  his  case.  He  cursed  his  luck,  his  stars,  his 
foretop,  his  main  hatch,  his  blasted  foolishness,  his 
lubberly  crew— Lanky  and  I — and  a  variety  of  other 
persons  and  things;  but  all  to  no  avail.  Night 
came  on,  and  the  light  on  North  Heads  gleamed  at 
us  with  a  sickly  eye  through  the  deepening  fog. 
We  had  a  bit  of  luncheon  with  us,  but  no  fire,  and 
were  fain  to  content  ourselves  with  cold  meat,  bread, 
and  water,  hoping  that  a  warm  breakfast  in  San 
Francisco  would  make  some  amends  for  our  present 


1 66  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

short  rations.  But  the  night  wore  on,  and  we  were 
still  tumbling  about  in  the  rising  sea  without  wind 
enough  to  fill  our  sails,  a  rayless  sky  overhead,  and 
with  breakers  continually  under  our  lee.  Once  we 
saw  lights  on  shore,  and  heard  the  sullen  thud  of 
rollers  that  smote  against  the  rocks;  it  was  aggra 
vating,  as  the  fog  lifted  for  a  space,  to  see  the  cheer 
ful  windows  of  the  Cliff  House,  and  almost  hear  the 
merry  calls  of  pleasure-seekers  as  they  muffled  them 
selves  in  their  wraps  and  drove  gayly  up  the  hill, 
reckless  of  the  poor  homeless  mariners  who  were 
drifting  comfortlessly  about  so  near  the  shore  they 
could  not  reach.  We  got  out  the  sweeps  and  rowed 
lustily  for  several  hours,  steering  by  the  compass 
and  taking  our  bearings  from  the  cliff. 

But  we  lost  our  bearings  in  the  maze  of  currents 
in  which  we  soon  found  ourselves,  and  the  dim 
shore  melted  away  in  the  thickening  fog.  To  add 
to  our  difficulties,  Captain  Booden  put  his  head 
most  frequently  into  the  cuddy;  and  when  it 
emerged,  he  smelt  dreadfully  of  gin.  Lanky  and  I 
held  a  secret  council,  in  which  we  agreed,  in  case  he 
became  intoxicated,  we  would  rise  up  in  mutiny 
and  work  the  vessel  on  our  own  account.  He 
shortly  "  lost  his  head,"  as  Lanky  phrased  it;  and 
slipping  down  on  the  deck,  went  quietly  into  the 
sleep  of  the  gin-drunken.  At  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  gray  fog  grew  grayer  with  the  early 
dawning ;  and  as  I  gazed  with  weary  eyes  into  the 
vague  unknown  that  shut  us  in,  Booden  roused  him 
from  his  booze,  and  seizing  the  tiller  from  my 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  167 

hand,  bawled  :  "  'Bout  ship,  you  swab  !  we're  on 
the  Farralones  !"  And  sure  enough,  there  loomed 
right  under  our  starboard  quarter  a  group  of  con 
ical  rocks,  steeply  rising  from  the  restless  blue 
sea.  Their  wild  white  sides  were  crowded  with 
chattering  sea-fowl  ;  and  far  above,  like  a  faint 
nimbus  in  the  sky,  shone  the  feeble  rays  of  the 
lighthouse  lantern,  now  almost  quenched  by  the 
dull  gleam  of  day  that  crept  up  from  the  water. 
The  helm  was  jammed  hard  down.  There  was  no 
time  to  get  out  sweeps;  but  still  drifting  helplessly, 
we  barely  grazed  the  bare  rocks  of  the  islet,  and 
swung  clear,  slinking  once  more  into  the  gloom. 

Our  scanty  stock  of  provisions  and  water  was 
gone  ;  but  there  was  no  danger  of  starvation,  for 
the  generous  product  of  the  henneries  and  dairies 
of  Bolinas  filled  the  vessel's  hold — albeit  raw  eggs 
and  butter  without  bread  might  only  serve  as  a 
barrier  against  famine.  So  we  drifted  and  tumbled 
about — still  no  wind  and  no  sign  of  the  lifting  of 
the  fog.  Once  in  awhile  it  would  roll  upward  and 
show  a  long,  flat  expanse  of  water,  tempting  us  to 
believe  that  the  blessed  sky  was  coming  out  at  last ; 
but  soon  the  veil  fell  again,  and  we  aimlessly  won 
dered  where  we  were  and  whither  we  were  drifting. 
There  is  something  awful  and  mysterious  in  the 
shadowy  nothingness  that  surrounds  one  in  a  fog 
at  sea.  You  fancy  that  out  of  that  impenetrable 
mist  may  suddenly  burst  some  great  disaster  or 
danger.  Strange  shapes  appear  to  be  forming  them 
selves  in  the  obscurity  out  of  which  they  emerge, 


168  LOST  IN    THE  FOG. 

and  the  eye  is  wearied  beyond  expression  with 
looking  into  a  vacuity  which  continually  promises 
to  evolve  into  something,  but  never  does. 

Thus  idly  drifting,  we  heard,  first,  the  creaking  of 
a  block,  then  a  faint  wash  of  sea ;  and  out  of  the 
white  depths  of  the  fog  came  the  bulky  hull  of  a 
full-rigged  ship.  Her  sails  were  set,  but  she  made 
scarcely  steerage  way.  Her  rusty  sides  and  general 
look  bespoke  a  long  voyage  just  concluding  )•  and 
we  found  on  hailing  her  that  she  was  the  British 
ship  Marathon,  from  Calcutta  for  San  Francisco. 
We  boarded  the  Marathon,  though  almost  in  sight 
of  our  own  port,  with  something  of  the  feeling  that 
shipwrecked  seamen  may  have  when  they  reach 
land.  It  was  odd  that  we,  lost  and  wandering  as 
we  were,  should  be  thus  encountered  in  the  vast 
unknown  where  we  were  drifting  by  a  strange  ship  ; 
and  though  scarcely  two  hours'  sail  from  home, 
should  be  supplied  with  bread  and  water  by  a  Brit 
isher  from  the  Indies.  We  gave  them  all  the  infor 
mation  we  had  about  the  pilots,  whom  we  wanted 
so  much  to  meet  ourselves  ;  and  after  following 
slowly  for  a  few  hours  by  the  huge  side  of  our 
strange  friend,  parted  company — the  black  hull  and 
huge  spars  of  the  Indiaman  gradually  lessening  in 
the  mist  that  shut  her  from  our  view.  We  had 
touched  a  chord  that  bound  us  to  our  fellow-men; 
but  it  was  drawn  from  our  hands,  and  the  unfath 
omable  abyss  in  which  we  floated  had  swallowed  up 
each  human  trace,  except  what  was  comprised  on 
the  contracted  deck  of  the  Lively  Polly,  where  Cap- 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  169 

tain  Booden  sat  glumly  whittling,  and  Lanky  med 
itatively  peered  after  the  disappeared  Marathon,  as 
though  his  soul  and  all  his  hopes  had  gone  with  her. 
The  deck,  with  its  load  of  cord-wood  ;  the  sails  and 
rigging ;  the  sliding-hutch  of  the  little  cuddy ;  and 
all  the  features  of  the  Lively  Polly,  but  yesterday 
so  unfamiliar,  were  now  as  odiously  wearisome  as 
though  I  had  known  them  for  a  century.  It  seemed 
as  if  I  had  never  known  any  other  place. 

All  that  day  we  floated  aimlessly  along,  moved 
only  by  the  sluggish  currents,  which  shifted  occa 
sionally,  but  generally  bore  us  westward  and  south 
ward  ;  not  a  breath  of  wind  arose,  and  our  sails 
were  as  useless  as  though  we  had  been  on  dry  land. 
Night  came  on  again,  and  found  us  still  entirely 
without  reckoning  and  as  completely  "  at  sea"  as 
ever  before.  To  add  to  our  discomfort,  a  drizzling 
rain,  unusual  for  the  season  of  the  year,  set  in,  and 
we  cowered  on  the  wet  deck-load,  more  than  ever 
disgusted  with  each  other  and  the  world.  During 
the  night  a  big  oceaq,.  steamer  came  plunging  and 
crashing  through  the  darkness,  her  lights  gleaming 
redly  through  the  dense  medium  as  she  cautiously 
felt  her  way  past  us,  falling  off  a  few  points  as  she 
heard  our  hail.  We  lay  right  in  her  path,  but  with 
tin  horns  and  a  wild  Indian  yell  from  the  versatile 
Lanky  managed  to  make  ourselves  heard,  and  the 
mysterious  stranger  disappeared  in  the  fog  as  sud 
denly  as  she  had  come,  and  we  were  once  more 
alone  in  the  darkness. 

The  night  wore  slowly  away,  and  we  made  out 


1 70  LOST  IN    THE   FOG. 

to  catch  a  few  hours'  sleep,  standing  "  watch  and 
watch"  with  each  other  of  our  slender  crew.  Day 
dawned  again,  and  we  broke  our  fast  with  the  last 
of  the  Marathon's  biscuit,  having  "broken  cargo" 
to  eke  out  our  cold  repast  with  some  of  the  Bolinas 
butter  and  eggs  which  we  were  taking  to  a  most 
unexpected  market. 

Suddenly,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we 
heard  the  sound  of  breakers  ahead,  and  above  the 
sullen  roar  of  the  surf  I  distinctly  heard  the  tink- 
lings  of  a  bell.  We  got  out  our  sweeps  and  had 
commenced  to  row  wearily  once  more,  when  the 
fog  lifted  and  before  us  lay  the  blessed  land.  A 
high  range  of  sparsely  wooded  hills,  crowned  with 
rocky  ledges,  and  with  abrupt  slopes  covered  with 
dry  brown  grass,  running  to  the  water's  edge,  form 
ed  the  background  of  the  picture.  Nearer,  a  tongue 
of  high  land,  brushy  and  rocky,  made  out  from  the 
main  shore,  and  curving  southward,  formed  a  shel 
ter  to  what  seemed  a  harbor  within.  Against  the 
precipitous  point  the  sea  broke  with  a  heavy  blow, 
and  a  few  ugly  peaks  of  rock  lifted  their  heads 
above  the  heaving  green  of  the  sea.  High  up  above 
the  sky-line  rose  one  tall,  sharp,  blue  peak,  yet 
veiled  in  the  floating  mist,  but  its  base  melted  away 
into  a  mass  of  verdure  that  stretched  from  the  shore 
far  up  the  mountain-side.  Our  sweeps  were  now 
used  to  bring  us  around  the  point,  and  cautiously 
pulling  in,  we  opened  a  lovely  bay  bordered  with 
orchards  and  vineyards,  in  the  midst  of  which  was 
a  neat  village,  glittering  white  in  the  sunshine,  and 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  171 

clustered  around  an  old-fashioned  mission  church, 
whose  quaint  gable  and  tower  reminded  us  of  the 
buildings  of  the  early  Spanish  settlers  of  the  country. 
As  we  neared  the  shore  (there  was  no  landing-place) 
we  could  see  an  unwonted  commotion  in  the  clean 
streets,  and  a  flag  was  run  up  to  the  top  of  a  white 
staff  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  plaza.  Captain 
Booden  returned  the  compliment  by  hoisting  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  at  our  mainmast  head,  but  was 
sorely  bothered  with  the  mingled  dyes  of  the  flag 
on  shore.  A  puff  of  air  blew  out  its  folds,  and  to 
our  surprise  disclosed  the  Mexican  national  stand 
ard. 

"  Blast  them  greasers,"  said  the  patriotic  skipper, 
"  if  they  ain't  gone  and  histed  a  Mexican  cactus 
flag,  then  I'm  bio  wed."  He  seriously  thought  of 
hauling  down  his  beloved  national  colors  again, 
resenting  the  insult  of  hoisting  a  foreign  flag  on 
American  soil.  He  pocketed  the  affront,  however, 
remarking  that  "  they  probably  knew  that  a  Bolinas 
butter-boat  was  not  much  of  a  fightist  anyway." 

We  dropped  anchor  gladly,  Captain  Booden  being 
wholly  at  a  loss  as  to  our  whereabouts.  We  judged 
that  we  were  somewhere  south  of  the  Golden  Gate, 
but  what  town  this  was  that  slept  so  tranquilly  in 
the  summer  sun,  and  what  hills  were  these  that 
walled  in  the  peaceful  scene  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  we  could  not  tell.  The  village  seemed  awaken 
ing  from  its  serene  sleepiness,  and  one  by  one  the 
windows  of  the  adobe  cottages  swung  open  as  if  the 
people  rubbed  their  long-closed  eyes  at  some  un- 


172  LOST  IN    THE  FOG. 

wonted  sight ;  and  the  doors  gradually  opened  as 
though  their  dumb  lips  would  hail  us  and  ask  who 
were  these  strangers  that  vexed  the  quiet  waters  of 
their  bay.  But  two  small  fishing-boats  lay  at  anchor, 
and  these  Booden  said  reminded  him  of  Christopher 
Columbus  or  Noah's  Ark,  they  were  so  clumsy  and 
antique  in  build. 

We  hauled  our  boat  up  alongside,  and  all  hands 
got  in  and  went  ashore.  As  we  landed,  a  little 
shudder  seemed  to  go  through  the  sleepy  old  place, 
as  if  it  had  been  rudely  disturbed  from  its  comfort 
able  nap,  and  a  sudden  sob  of  sea  air  swept  through 
the  quiet  streets  as  though  the  insensate  houses  had 
actually  breathed  the  weary  sigh  of  awaking.  The 
buildings  were  low  and  white,  with  dark-skinned 
children  basking  in  the  doors,  and  grass  hammocks 
swinging  beneath  open  verandas.  There  were  no 
stores,  no  sign  of  business,  and  no  sound  of  vehicles 
or  labor ;  all  was  as  decorous  and  quiet,  to  use  the 
skipper's  description,  «  as  if  the  people  had  slicked 
up  their  door-yards,  whitewashed  their  houses,  and 
gone  to  bed."  It  was  just  like  a  New  England 
Sabbath  in  a  Mexican  village. 

And  this  fancy  was  further  colored  by  a  strange 
procession  which  now  met  us  as  we  went  up  from 
the  narrow  beach,  having  first  made  fast  our  boat. 
A  lean  Mexican  priest,  with  an  enormous  shovel 
hat  and  particularly  shabby  cassock,  came  toward 
us,  followed  by  a  motley  crowd  of  Mexicans,  promi 
nent  among  whom  was  a  pompous  old  man  clad 
in  a  seedy  Mexican  uniform  and  wearing  a  trailing 


LOS T  IN    THE   FOG.  173 

rapier  at  his  side.  The  rest  of  the  procession  was 
brought  up  with  a  crowd  of  shy  women,  dark-eyed 
and  tawny  and  all  poorly  clad,  though  otherwise 
comfortable  enough  in  condition.  These  hung  back 
and  wonderingly  looked  at  the  strange  faces,  as 
though  they  had  never  seen  the  like  before.  The 
old  padre  lifted  his  skinny  hands,  and  said  some 
thing  in  Spanish  which  I  did  not  understand. 

"Why,  the  old  mummy  is  slinging  his  popish 
blessings  at  us!"  This  was  Lanky's  interpretation 
of  the  kindly  priest's  paternal  salutation.  And, 
sure  enough,  he  was  welcoming  us  to  the  shore  of 
San  Ildefonso  with  holy  fervor  and  religious  phrase. 

"  I  say,"  said  Booden,  a  little  testily,  "what  did 
you  say  was  the  name  of  this  place,  and  where  away 
does  it  lay  from  'Frisco  ?"  In  very  choice  Castilian, 
as  Lanky  declared,  the  priest  rejoined  that  he  did 
not  understand  the  language  in  which  Booden  was 
speaking.  "  Then  bring  on  somebody  that  does," 
rejoined  that  irreverent  mariner,  when  due  inter 
pretation  had  been  made.  The  padre  protested 
that  no  one  in  the  village  understood  the  English 
tongue.  The  skipper  gave  a  long  low  whistle  of 
suppressed  astonishment,  and  wondered  if  we  had 
drifted  down  to  Lower  California  in  two  days  and 
nights,  and  had  struck  a  Mexican  settlement.  The 
colors  on  the  flagstaff  and  the  absence  of  any 
Americans  gave  some  show  of  reason  to  this  start 
ling  conclusion  ;  and  Lanky,  who  was  now  the  in- 
terpreter  of  the  party,  asked  the  name  of  the  place, 
and  was  again  told  that  it  was  San  Ildefonso;  but 


174  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

when  he  asked  what  country  it  was  in  and  how  far 
it  was  to  San  Francisco,  he  was  met  with  a  polite 
"  I  do  not  understand  you,  SefLor."  Here  was  a 
puzzle  :  becalmed  in  a  strange  port  only  two  days 
drift  from  the  city  of  San  Francisco ;  a  town  which 
the  schoolmaster  declared  was  not  laid  down  on  any 
map ;  a  population  that  spoke  only  Spanish  and  did 
not  know  English  when  they  heard  it ;  a  Mexican 
flag  flying  over  the  town,  and  an  educated  priest  who 
did  not  know  what  we  meant  when  we  asked  how 
far  it  was  to  San  Francisco.  Were  we  bewitched  ? 
Accepting  a  hospitable  invitation  from  the  padre, 
we  sauntered  up  to  the  plaza,  where  we  were 
ushered  into  a  long,  low  room,  which  might  once 
have  been  a  military  barrack-room.  It  was  neatly 
whitewashed  and  had  a  hard  clay  floor,  and  along 
the  walls  were  a  few  ancient  firelocks  and  a  vener 
able  picture  of  "His  Excellency,  General  Santa 
Ana,  President  of  the  Republic  of  Mexico,"  as  a 
legend  beneath  it  set  forth.  Breakfast  of  chickens, 
vegetables,  bread,  and  an  excellent  sort  of  country 
wine  (this  last  being  served  in  a  big  earthen  bottle) 
was  served  up  to  us  on  the  long  unpainted  table 
that  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  During  the 
repast  our  host,  the  priest,  sat  with  folded  hands 
intently  regarding  us,  while  the  rest  of  the  people 
clustered  around  the  door  and  open  windows,  ey 
ing  us  with  indescribable  and  incomprehensible 
curiosity.  If  we  had  been  visitors  from  the  moon 
we  could  not  have  attracted  more  attention.  Even 
the  stolid  Indians,  a  few  of  whom  strolled  lazily 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  1 75 

about,  came  and  gazed  at  us  until  the  pompous  old 
man  in  faded  Mexican  uniform  drove  them  noisily 
away  from  the  window,  where  they  shut  out  the 
light  and  the  pleasant  morning  air,  perfumed  with 
heliotropes,  verbenas,  and  sweet  herbs  that  grew 
luxuriantly  about  the  houses. 

The  padre  had  restrained  his  curiosity  out  of  rigid 
politeness  until  we  had  eaten,  when  he  began  by 
asking,  "  Did  our  galleon  come  from  Manila?" 
We  told  him  that  we  only  came  from  Bolinas ; 
whereat  he  said  once  more,  with  a  puzzled  look  of 
pain,  "I  do  not  understand  you,  Senor."  Then 
pointing  through  the  open  doorway  to  where  the 
Lively  Polly  peacefully  floated  at  anchor,  he  asked 
what  ensign  was  that  which  floated  at  her  masthead. 
Lanky  proudly,  but  with  some  astonishment,  re 
plied  :  "  That's  the  American  flag,  Senor."  At  this 
the  seedy  old  man  in  uniform  eagerly  said  :  "  Amer 
icanos  !  Americanos!  why,  I  saw  some  of  those  peo 
ple  and  that  flag  at  Monterey."  Lanky  asked  him 
if  Monterey  was  not  full  of  Americans,  and  did  not 
have  plenty  of  flags.  The  Ancient  replied  that  he 
did  not  know  ;  it  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  been 
there.  Lanky  observed  that  perhaps  he  had  never 
been  there.  "  I  was  there  in  1835,"  said  the  Ancient. 
This  curious  speech  being  interpreted  to  Captain 
Booden,  that  worthy  remarked  that  he  did  not  be 
lieve  that  he  had  seen  a  white  man  since. 

After  an  ineffectual  effort  to  explain  to  the  com 
pany  where  Bolinas  was,  we  rose  and  went  out  for 
a  view  of  the  town.  It  was  beautifully  situated  on 


1 76  LOST  IN    THE   FOG. 

a  gentle  rise  which  swelled  up  from  the  water's  edge 
and  fell  rapidly  off  in  the  rear  of  the  town  into  a 
deep  ravine,  where  a  brawling  mountain  stream 
supplied  a  little  flouring-mill  with  motive  power. 
Beyond  the  ravine  were  small  fields  of  grain,  beans 
and  lentils  on  the  rolling  slopes,  and  back  of  these 
rose  the  dark,  dense  vegetation  of  low  hills,  while 
over  all  were  the  rough  and  ragged  ridges  of  moun 
tains  closing  in  all  the  scene.  The  town  itself,  as  I 
have  said,  was  white  and  clean  ;  the  houses  were 
low-browed,  with  windows  secured  by  wooden  shut 
ters,  only  a  few  glazed  sashes  being  seen  anywhere. 
Out  of  these  openings  in  the  thick  adobe  walls  of 
the  humble  homes  of  the  villagers  flashed  the  curious, 
the  abashed  glances  of  many  a  dark-eyed  senorita, 
who  fled,  laughing,  as  we  approached.  The  old 
church  was  on  the  plaza,  and  in  its  odd-shaped  tur 
ret  tinkled  the  little  bell  whose  notes  had  sounded 
the  morning  angelus  when  we  were  knocking  about 
in  the  fog  outside.  High  up  on  its  quaintly  arched 
gable  was  inscribed  in  antique  letters  "  1796."  In 
reply  to  a  sceptical  remark  from  Lanky,  Booden 
declared  that  "  the  old  shell  looked  as  though  it 
might  have  been  built  in  the  time  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  for  that  matter."  The  worthy  skipper  had 
a  misty  idea  that  all  old  Spanish  buildings  were 
built  in  the  days  of  these  famous  sovereigns. 

Hearing  the  names  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  the 
padre  gravely  and  reverentially  asked  :  "  And  is  the 
health  of  His  Excellency,  General  Santa  Ana, 
whom  God  protect,  still  continued  to  him  ?" 


LOS T  IN    THE  FOG.  177 

With  great  amazement,  Lanky  replied  :  "  Santa 
Afia !  why,  the  last  heard  of  him  was  that  he  was 
keeping  a  cockpit  in  Havana;  some  of  the  news 
papers  published  an  obituary  of  him  about  six 
months  ago,  but  I  believe  he  is  alive  yet  somewhere." 

A  little  flush  of  indignation  mantled  the  old  man's 
cheek,  and  with  a  tinge  of  severity  in  his  voice  he 
said  :  "  I  have  heard  that  shameful  scandal  about 
our  noble  President  once  before,  but  you  must  ex 
cuse  me  if  I  ask  you  not  to  repeat  it.  It  is  true  he 
took  away  our  Pious  Fund  some  years  since,  but  he 
is  still  our  revered  President,  and  I  would  not  hear 
him  ill-spoken  of  any  more  than  our  puissant  and 
mighty  Ferdinand,  of  whom  you  just  spoke — may 
he  rest  in  glory!"  and  here  the  good  priest  crossed 
himself  devoutly. 

"  What  is  the  old  priest  jabbering  about  ?"  asked 
Captain  Booden,  impatiently ;  for  he  was  in  haste 
to  "  get  his  bearings"  and  be  off.  When  Lanky 
replied,  he  burst  out  :  "  Tell  him  that  Santa  Ana 
is  not  President  of  Mexico  any  more  than  I  am, 
and  that  he  hasn't  amounted  to  a  row  of  pins  since 
California  was  part  of  the  United  States." 

Lanky  faithfully  interpreted  this  fling  at  the  ex- 
President,  whereupon  the  padre,  motioning  to  the 
Ancient  to  put  up  his  rapier,  which  had  leaped  out 
of  its  rusty  scabbard,  said  :  "  Nay,  Senor,  you  would 
insult  an  old  man.  We  have  never  been  told  yet  by 
our  government  that  the  Province  of  California 
was  alienated  from  the  great  Republic  of  Mexico, 
and  we  owe  allegiance  to  none  save  the  nation  whose 


1 78  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

flag  we  love  so  well ;"  and  the  old  man  turned  his 
tear-dimmed  eyes  toward  the  ragged  standard  of 
Mexico  that  drooped  from  the  staff  in  the  plaza. 
Continuing,  he  said:  "Our  noble  country  has 
strangely  forgotten  us,  and  though  we  watch  the 
harbor-entrance  year  after  year,  no  tidings  ever 
comes.  The  galleon  that  was  to  bring  us  stores  has 
never  been  seen  on  the  horizon  yet,  and  we  seem 
lost  in  the  fog?' 

The  schoolmaster  of  Jaybird  Canon  managed  to 
tell  us  what  the  priest  had  said,  and  then  asked 
when  he  had  last  heard  of  the  outside  world.  "  It 
was  in  1837,"  said  he,  sadly,  "  when  we  sent  a  cou 
rier  to  the  Mission  del  Carmelo,  at  Monterey,  for 
tidings  from  New  Spain.  He  never  came  back, 
and  the  great  earthquake  which  shook  the  country 
hereabout  opened  a  huge  chasm  across  the  country 
just  back  of  the  Sierra  yonder,  and  none  dared  to 
cross  over  to  the  main  land.  The  saints  have  de 
fended  us  in  peace,  and  it  is  the  will  of  Heaven  that 
we  shall  stay  here  by  ourselves  until  the  Holy  Vir 
gin,  in  answer  to  our  prayers,  shall  send  us  deliv 
erance." 

Here  was  a  new  revelation.  This  was  an  old 
Spanish  Catholic  mission,  settled  in  1796,,  called 
San  Ildefonso,  which  had  evidently  been  overlooked 
for  nearly  forty  years,  and  had  quietly  slept  in  an 
unknown  solitude  while  the  country  had  been 
transferred  to  the  United  States  from  the  flag  that 
still  idly  waved  over  it.  Lost  in  the  fog  !  Here 
was  a  whole  town  lost  in  a  fog  of  years.  Empires 


LOST  IN    THE  FOG,  179 

and  dynasties  had  risen  and  fallen  ;  the  world  had 
repeatedly  been  shaken  to  its  centre,  and  this  peo 
ple  had  heeded  it  not ;  a  great  civil  war  had  ravaged 
the  country  to  which  they  now  belonged,  and  they 
knew  not  of  it ;  poor  Mexico  herself  had  been  torn 
with  dissensions  and  had  been  insulted  with  an  em 
pire,  and  these  peaceful  and  weary  watchers  for 
tidings  from  "  New  Spain"  had  recked  nothing  of 
all  these  things.  All  around  them  the  busy  State  of 
California  was  scarred  with  the  eager  pick  of  gold- 
seekers  or  the  shining  share  of  the  husbandman  ; 
towns  and  cities  had  sprung  up  where  these  patri 
archs  had  only  known  of  vast  cattle  ranges  or 
sleepy  missions  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Fathers. 
They  knew  nothing  of  the  great  city  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  with  its  busy  marts  and  crowded  harbor ;  and 
thought  of  its  broad  bay — if  they  thought  of  it  at 
all— as  the  lovely  shore  of  Yerba  Buena,  bounded 
by  bleak  hills  and  almost  unvexed  by  any  keel. 
The  political  storms  of  forty  years  had  gone  hurt- 
less  over  their  heads,  and  in  a  certain  sort  of  dream 
less  sleep  San  Ildefonso  had  still  remained  true  to 
the  red,  white,  and  green  flag  that  had  long  since 
disappeared  from  every  part  of  the  State  save  here, 
where  it  was  still  loved  and  revered  as  the  '  "inner 
of  the  soil. 

The  social  and  political  framework  of  the  town  had 
been  kept  up  through  all  these  years.  There  had  been 
no  connection  with  the  fountain  of  political  power, 
but  the  town  was  ruled  by  the  legally  elected 
Ayuntamiento,  or  Common  Council,  of  which  the 


i8o  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

Ancient,  Senor  Apolonario  Maldonado,  was  Presi 
dent  or  Alcade.  They  were  daily  looking  for 
advices  from  Don  Jose  Castro,  Governor  of  the 
loyal  province  of  California ;  and  so  they  had  been 
looking  daily  for  forty  years.  We  asked  if  they 
had  not  heard  from  any  of  the  prying  Yankees  who 
crowd  the  country.  Father  Ignacio — for  that  was 
the  padre's  name — replied  :  tl  Yes  ;  five  years  ago, 
when  the  winter  rains  had  just  set  in,  a  tall,  spare 
man,  who  talked  some  French  and  some  Spanish, 
came  down  over  the  mountains  with  a  pack  con 
taining  pocket-knives,  razors,  soap,  perfumery, 
laces,  and  other  curious  wares,  and  besought  our 
people  to  purchase.  We  have  not  much  coin,  but 
were  disposed  to  treat  him  Christianly,  until  he  did 
declare  that  President  General  Santa  Ana,  whom 
may  the  saints  defend  !  was  a  thief  and  gambler, 
and  had  gambled  away  the  Province  of  California 
to  the  United  States;  whereupon  we  drave  him 
hence,  the  Ayuntamiento  sending  a  trusty  guard  to 
see  him  two  leagues  from  the  borders  of  the  Pueblo. 
But  months  after,  we  discovered  his  pack  and  such 
of  his  poor  bones  as  the  wild  beasts  of  prey  had  not 
carried  off,  at  the  base  of  a  precipice  where  he  had 
fallen.  His  few  remains  and  his  goods  were  to 
gether  buried  on  the  mountain-side,  and  I  lamented 
that  we  had  been  so  hard  with  him.  But  the  saints 
forbid  that  he  should  go  back  and  tell  where  the 
people  of  San  Ildefonso  were  waiting  to  hear  from 
their  own  neglectful  country,  which  may  Heaven 
defend,  bless,  and  prosper." 


LOST  IN    THE   FOG.  181 

The  little  town  took  on  a  new  interest  to  us  cold 
outsiders  after  hearing  its  strange  and  almost  im 
probable  story.  We  could  have  scarcely  believed 
that  San  Ildefonso  had  actually  been  overlooked  in 
the  transfer  of  the  country  from  Mexico  to  the 
United  States,  and  had  for  nearly  forty  years  been 
hidden  away  between  the  Sierra  and  the  sea;  but 
if  we  were  disposed  to  doubt  the  word  of  the  good 
father,  here  was  intrinsic  evidence  of  the  truth  of 
his  narrative.  There  were  no  Americans  here: 
only  the  remnants  of  the  old  Mexican  occupation 
and  the  civilized  Indians.  No  traces  of  later  civili 
zation  could  be  found  ;  but  the  simple  dresses, 
tools,  implements  of  husbandry,  and  household 
utensils  were  such  as  I  have  seen  in  the  half-civil 
ized  wilds  of  Central  America.  The  old  mill  in  the 
canon  behind  the  town  was  a  curiosity  of  clumsi 
ness,  and  nine-tenths  of  the  water-power  of  the  ar- 
roya  that  supplied  it  were  wasted.  Besides,  until 
now,  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  town  in  California 
as  San  Ildefonso  ?  Upon  what  map  can  any  such 
headland  and  bay  be  traced  ?  and  where  are  the  his 
toric  records  of  the  pueblo  whose  well-defined 
boundaries  lay  palpably  before  us  ?  I  have  dwelt 
upon  this  point,  about  which  I  naturally  have  some 
feeling,  because  of  the  sceptical  criticism  which  my 
narrative  has  since  provoked.  There  are  some  peo 
ple  in  the  world  who  never  will  believe  anything 
that  they  have  not  seen,  touched,  or  tasted  for  them 
selves  ;  California  has  her  share  of  such. 

Captain  Booden   was  disposed   to   reject  Father 


1 82  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

Ignacio's  story,  until  I  called  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  this  was  a  tolerable  harbor  for  small  craft, 
and  yet  had  never  before  been  heard  of  ;  that  he 
never  knew  of  such  a  town,  and  that  if  any  of  his 
numerous  associates  in  the  marine  profession  knew 
of  the  town  or  harbor  of  San  Ildefonso,  he  surely 
would  have  heard  of  it  from  them.  He  restrained 
his  impatience  to  be  off  long  enough  to  allow 
Father  Ignacio  to  gather  from  us  a  few  chapters  of 
the  world's  history  for  forty  years  past.  The  dis 
covery  of  gold  in  California,  the  settlement  of  the 
country  and  the  Pacific  Railroad  were  not  so  much 
account  to  him,  somehow,  as  the  condition  of 
Europe,  the  Church  of  Mexico,  and  what  had  become 
of  the  Pious  Fund  ;  this  last  I  discovered  had  been 
a  worrisome  subject  to  the  good  Father.  I  did  not 
know  what  it  was  myself,  but  I  believe  it  was  the 
alienation  from  the  church  of  certain  moneys  and 
incomes  which  were  transferred  to  speculators  by 
the  Mexican  Congress,  years  and  years  ago. 

I  was  glad  to  find  that  we  were  more  readily 
believed  by  Father  Ignacio  and  the  old  Don  than 
our  Yankee  predecessor  had  been  ;  perhaps  we  were 
believed  more  on  his  corroborative  evidence.  The 
priest,  however,  politely  declined  to  believe  all  we 
said — that  was  evident;  and  the  Don  steadily  re 
fused  to  believe  that  California  had  been  transferred 
to  the  United  States.  It  was  a  little  touching  to 
see  Father  Ignacio's  doubt  and  hopes  struggle  in 
his  withered  face  as  he  heard  in  a  few  brief  sen 
tences  the  history  of  his  beloved  land  and  Church 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  183 

for  forty  years  past.  His  eye  kindled  or  it  was  be 
dewed  with  tears  as  he  listened,  and  an  occasional 
flash  of  resentment  flushed  his  cheek  when  he  heard 
something  that  shook  his  ancient  faith  in  the  estab 
lished  order  of  things. .  To  a  proposition  to  take  a 
passage  with  us  to  San  Francisco,  he  replied  warmly 
that  he  would  on  no  account  leave  his  flock,  nor 
attempt  to  thwart  the  manifest  will  of  Heaven  that 
the  town  should  remain  unheard  of  until  delivered 
from  its  long  sleep  by  the  same  agencies  that  had 
cut  it  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Neither  would 
he  allow  any  of  the  people  to  come  with  us. 

And  so  we  parted.  We  went  out  with  the  turn 
of  the  tide,  Father  Ignacio  and  the  Ancient  accom 
panying  us  to  the  beach,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  the 
townsfolk,  who  carried  for  us  water  and  provisions 
for  a  longer  voyage  than  ours  promised  to  be. 
The  venerable  priest  raised  his  hands  in  parting 
blessing  as  we  shoved  off,  and  I  saw  two  big  tears 
roll  down  the  furrowed  face  of  Senor  Maldonado, 
who  looked  after  us  as  a  stalwart  old  warrior  might 
look  at  the  departure  of  a  band  of  hopeful  comrades 
leaving  him  to  fret  in  monkish  solitude  while  they 
were  off  to  the  wars  again.  Wind  and  tide  served, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  Lively  Polly  rounded  the 
point,  and  looking  back,  I  saw  the  yellow  haze  of 
the  afternoon  sun  sifted  sleepily  over  all  the  place ; 
the  knots  of  white-clad  people  standing  statuesque 
and  motionless  as  they  gazed  ;  the  flag  of  Mexico 
faintly  waving  in  the  air;  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
a  slumbrous  veil  seemed  to  fall  over  all  the  scene; 


1 84  LOST  IN   THE  FOG, 

and  as  our  boat  met  the  roll  of  the  current  outside 
the  headland,  the  gray  rocks  of  the  point  shut  out 
the  fading  view,  and  we  saw  the  last  of  San  Ilde- 
fonso. 

Captain  Booden  had  gathered  enough  from  the 
people  to  know  that  we  were  somewhere  south  of 
San  Francisco  (the  Lively  Polly  had  no  chart  or 
nautical  instruments  on  board  of  course),  and  so  he 
determined  to  coast  cautiously  along  northward, 
marking  the  shore  line  in  order  to  be  able  to  guide 
other  navigators  to  the  harbor.  But  a  light  mist 
crept  down  the  coast,  shutting  out  the  view  of  the 
headlands,  and  by  midnight  we  had  stretched  out 
to  sea  again,  and  we  were  once  more  out  of  our 
reckoning.  At  daybreak,  however,  the  fog  lifted, 
and  we  found  ourselves  in  sight  of  land,  and  a  brisk 
breeze  blowing,  we  soon  made  Pigeon  Point,  and 
before  noon  were  inside  the  Golden  Gate,  and 
ended  our  long  and  adventurous  cruise  from  Bolinas 
Bay  by  hauling  into  the  wharf  of  San  Francisco. 

I  have  little  left  to  tell.  Of  the  shameful  way  in 
which  our  report  was  received,  every  newspaper 
reader  knows.  At  first  there  were  some  persons, 
men  of  science  and  reading,  who  were  disposed  to 
believe  what  we  said.  I  printed  in  one  of  the 
daily  newspapers  an  account  of  what  we  had  dis 
covered,  giving  a  full  history  of  San  Ildefonso  as 
Father  Ignacio  had  given  it  to  us.  Of  course,  as  I 
find  is  usual  in  such  cases,  the  other  newspapers 
pooh-poohed  the  story  their  contemporary  had  pub 
lished  to  their  exclusion,  and  made  themselves  very 


LOST  IN   THE  FOG.  185 

merry  over  what  they  were  pleased  to  term  "  The 
Great  San  Ildefonso  Sell.5'  I  prevailed  on  Captain 
Booden  to  make  a  short  voyage  down  the  coast  in 
search  of  the  lost  port.  But  we  never  saw  the 
headland,  the  ridge  beyond  the  town,  nor  anything 
that  looked  like  these  landmarks,  though  we  went 
down  as  far  as  San  Pedro  Bay  and  back  twice  or 
three  times.  It  actually  did  seem  that  the  whole 
locality  had  been  swallowed  up,  or  had  vanished 
into  air.  In  vain  did  I  bring  the  matter  to  the  notice 
of  the  merchants  and  scientific  men  of  San  Francis 
co.  Nobody  would  fit  out  an  exploring  expedition 
by  land  or  sea  ;  those  who  listened  at  first  finally 
inquired  "if  there  was  any  money  in  it?"  I 
could  not  give  an  affirmative  answer,  and  they 
turned  away  with  the  discouraging  remark  that  the 
California  Academy  of  Natural  Science  and  the 
Society  of  Pioneers  were  the  only  bodies  interested 
in  the  fate  of  our  lost  city.  Even  Captain  Booden 
somehow  lost  all  interest  in  the  enterprise,  and  re 
turned  to  his  Bolinas  coasting  with  the  most  stolid 
indifference.  I  combated  the  attacks  of  the  news 
papers  with  facts  and  depositions  of  my  fellow-voy 
agers  as  long  as  I  could,  until  one  day  the  editor  of 
the  Daily  Trumpeter  (I  suppress  the  real  name  of 
the  sheet)  coldly  told  me  that  the  public  were  tired 
of  the  story  of  San  Ildefonso.  It  was  plain  that  his 
mind  had  been  soured  by  the  sarcasms  of  his  con 
temporaries,  and  he  no  longer  believed  in  me. 

The  newspaper  controversy   died  away  and  was 
forgotten,  but  I  have  never  relinquished  the  hope 


i86  LOST  IN   THE  FOG. 

of  proving  the  verity  of  my  statements.  At  one 
time  I  expected  to  establish  the  truth,  having  heard 
that  one  Zedekiah  Murch  had  known  a  Yankee 
peddler  who  had  gone  over  the  mountains  of  Santa 
Cruz  and  never  was  heard  of  more.  But  Zedekiah's 
memory  was  feeble,  and  he  only  knew  that  such  a 
story  prevailed  long  ago  ;  so  that  clue  was  soon  lost 
again,  and  the  little  fire  of  enthusiasm  which  it  had 
kindled  among  a  few  persons  died  out.  I  have  not 
yet  lost  all  hope ;  and  when  I  think  of  the  regretful 
conviction  that  will  force  itself  upon  the  mind  of 
good  Father  Ignacio,  that  we  were,  after  all,  impos 
tors,  I  cannot  bear  to  reflect  that  I  may  die  and  visit 
the  lost  town  of  San  Ildefonso  no  more. 


Stories  by 
American  Authors 


MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  have  in  hand  a 
publication  of  unusual  importance  and  interest,  in  the  volumes 
of  "  Stories  by  American  Authors,"  of  which  they  have  just 
begun  the  issue. 

The  books  carry  their  sufficient  explanation  in  their  brief 
title.  They  are  collections  of  the  more  noteworthy  short 
stories  contributed  by  American  writers  during  the  last 
twenty-five  years — and  especially  during  the  last  ten — either 
to  periodicals  or  publications  now  for  some  reason  not  easily 
accessible. 

It  is  surprising  that  such  a  collection  has  not  been  at 
tempted  earlier,  in  view  of  the  extraordinarily  large  propor 
tion  of  strong  work  in  American  fiction  which  has  been  cast 
in  the  form  of  the  short  story. 

If  the  publishers  of  the  present  collection  are  right,  it  will 
not  only  show  the  remarkably  large  number  of  contemporary 
American  authors  who  have  won  general  acknowledgment 
of  their  excellence  in  this  field,  but  will  surprise  most  readers 
by  the  number  of  capital  and  striking  stories  by  less  frequent 
writers,  which  are  scattered  through  our  recent  periodical 
literature. 

In  England,  in  the  well-known  "  Tales  from  Blackwood," 
the  experiment  was  tried  of  publishing  such  stories  taken  from 
a  single  magazine  within  a  limited  time.  But  the  noticeable 
feature  of  the  present  volumes  will  be  seen  to  be  the  extent 
of  the  field  from  which  they  draw,  and  their  fully  representa 
tive  character. 


The  First  Volume  Contains 

WHO  WAS  SHE  ?    By  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

One  of  the  most  charming  and  fantastic  of  the  author's 
stories.  It  is  not  printed  in  Mr.  Taylor's  collected  works. 

THE    DOCUMENTS    IN    THE    CASE.     By  BRANDER 
MATTHEWS  and  H.  C.  BUNKER. 

A  very  clever  and  original  literary  experiment  in  letting  a 
story  tell  itself.  An  achievement  rivalling  in  ingenuity  any 
ever  made  by  a  novelist. 

BALACCHI  BROTHERS.     By  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 
A  touching  and  pathetic  story  of  two  loyal  athletes. 

ONE   OF  THE  THIRTY  PIECES.     By  W.  H.  BISHOP. 
A  striking  and  original  tale,  tracing  the  history  of  one  of 
the  accursed  pieces  of  silver  which  brings  its  curse  down  with 
it  to  modern  life. 


AN   OPERATION   IN   MONEY.     By  ALBERT  WEBSTER. 
A  clever  and  most  ingenious  story  of  a  bank-teller's  suc 
cessful  scheme. 


Bound  in  Cloth.    Price,  50  Cents. 


sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  and  745   Broadway,   New  York. 


The  Second  Volume  Contains 


THE  TRANSFERRED   GHOST.     By  FRANK  R.  STOCK 
TON. 

A  story  in  that  inimitable  manner  of  Mr.  Stockton's,  which 
keeps  his  readers  constantly  unprepared  for  the  ingenuities 
contrived  for  them. 

A    MARTYR   TO    SCIENCE.      By  MARY  PUTNAM  JA- 
COBI,  M.D. 

A  weird  fancy  admirably  carried  out,  following  the  ad 
ventures  of  a  would-be  human  vivisectionist. 

MRS.   KNOLLYS.     By  "  J.  S.  of  Dale." 

A  bit  of  exquisite  pathos  and  perfect  literary  art. 

A  DINNER-PARTY.    By  JOHN  EDDY. 

One  of  the  best  ''detective"  stories  ever  written  by  an 
American  author. 

THE  MOUNT  OF  SORROW.     By  Mrs.  HARRIET  PRES- 
COTT  SPOFFORD. 

"  One  of  the  most  striking  and  picturesque  of  Mrs.  Spofford's 
tales,  which  made  famous  the  writer  of  *  The  Amber  Gods.' " — 
Boston  Courier. 

SISTER  SILVIA.     By  MARY  AGNES  TINCKER. 
A  graceful  and  touching  tale  of  "Italian  peasant  life. 


Bound  in  Cloth.    Price,  5O  Cents. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


The  Third  Volume  Contains 

THE  SPIDER'S  EYE.     By  LUCRETIA  P.  HALE. 

A  singularly  original  fancy,  in  which  the  writer  gains  an  un 
expected  knowledge  of  the  thoughts  and  lives  of  the  people 
about  her. 

"A  masterly  study  in  psychology." — Hartford  Post. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER.    By  FRANCES 

HODGSON  BURNETT. 

Deals  with  the  career  of  a  young  American  painter  in  Paris. 
"  The  best  short  story  she  has  ever  written." — Boston  Courier. 

TWO    PURSE    COMPANIONS.     By  GEORGE  PARSONS 
LATHROP. 

The  scheme  of  two  college  comrades  to  equalize  their  lots 
in  life. 

POOR  OGLA-MOGA.    By  DAVID  D.  LLOYD. 

One  of  the  best  bits  of  comedy  of  recent  years  ;  the  advent 
ures  of  a  philanthropic  New  Yorker  in  improving  the  poor 
Indian. 

A  MEMORABLE  MURDER.    By  CELIA  THAXTER. 

The  graphic  and  terrible  tale  of  a  historic  crime  in  the  Isles 
of  Shoals. 

VENETIAN  GLASS.    By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

A  weird  and  striking  story  of  the  Old  and  New  Worlds, 
now  published  for  the  first  time. 


Bound  in  Cloth.    Price,  50  Cents. 

*»*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


Two  CHARMING  VOLUMES  OF  POETRY. 


AirsfromArcady  and  Elsewhere 

By  H.  C.   BUNNER. 


.,    ISmo,    O-ilt    Top,    $1.85. 


"It  is  not  often  that  we  have  in  our  hands  a  volume  of 
sweeter  or  more  finished  verses.  ...  In  choosing  Love  for  a 
conductor,  who  alone  may  open  the  way  to  Arcady,  the  poet 
indicates  the  theme  on  which  he  sings  best,  and  which  reflects 
at  some  angle,  or  repeats  in  some  strain  the  inspiration  of  the 
great  poetic  and  dramatic  passion  of  life.  His  poems  are 
thrown  together  in  a  delicately  concealed  order,  which  is  j  ^st 
perceptible  enough  to  give  an  impression  of  progress  arid 
movement." —  The  Independent, 


Ballades  and  Verses  Vain. 

By  ANDREW  LANG. 
1    Vol.,    ISrno,    GJ-ilt    Top,    $1.5O. 

"The  book  is  a  little  treasury  of  refined  thought,  graceful 
verse,  world-philosophy,  quiet  humor,  and  sometimes  a  gentle 
cynicism.  The  versification  is  always  polished,  the  sentiment 
delicate,  and  the  diction  vigorous  and  varied.  It  is  a  wholly 
charming  production." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


MRS.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT'S  NOVELS 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  Illustrated 
$1.50;  paper,  90  cents. 

44  We  know  of  no  more  powerful  work  from  a  woman's  hand  in  th 
English  language." — Boston  Transcript. 

11  The  best  original  novel  that    has  appeared  in  this  country  fc 
many  years." — Phil.  Press. 


HAWORTH'S.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

"Haworth's  is  a  product  of  genius  of  a  very  high  order." — N.  1 
Evening  Post. 

44  It  is  but  faint  praise  to  speak  of  HAWORTH'S  as  merely  a  goo* 
novel.     It  is  one  of  the  few  great  novels." — Hartford  Conrant. 


LOUISIANA.     One  vol.,  i2mo,  illustrated,  $1.00. 

"  We  commend  this  book  as  the  product  of  a  skillful,  talented 
well-trained  pen.  Mrs.  Burnett's  admirers  are  already  numbered  b 
the  thousand,  and  every  new  work  like  this  one  can  only  add  to  thei 
number."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 


EARLIER  STORIES.     Each,  one  vol.,  i6mo,  paper. 
Pretty  Polly  Pemberton.     Kathleen.     Each,  40  cents. 

Lindsay's  Luck.     Theo.     Miss  Crespigny.     Each,  30  cents. 

<4Each  of  these  narratives  has  a  distinct  spirit,  and  can  be  profit' 
ably  read  by  all  classes  of  people.  They  are  told  not  only  with  true 
art,  but  deep  pathos." — Boston  Post. 


*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS,   Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


GEORGE  W.  CABLE'S  NOVELS. 


1 '  I  have  read  all  thy  stories  and  like  them  very  much.  Thee  has 
found  an  untrodden  field  of  romance  in  New  Orleans ;  and  I  think 
thee  the  writer  whom  we  have  so  long  waited  to  see  come  up  in 
the  South." — The  Poet  W/iittier  to  Mr.  Cable. 

THE  GRANDISSIMES.  A  Story  of  Creole  Life.  With  a 
frontispiece,  "THE  CABILDO  OF  1883."  One  vol.,  i2mo. 
Price  reduced  to  $1.25. 

OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.  With  a  frontispiece,  "THE  CAFE  DES 
EXILES."  One  vol.,  I2mo,  uniform  with  The  Grandissimes, 

$1.25. 

Popular  Edition  of  Old  Creole  Days.  Two  Series,  sold  separately, 
30  cents  each.  The  same  in  cloth,  gilt  top,  with  frontispieces, 
75  cents  each. 

"Here  is  true  art  at  work.  Here  is  poetry,  pathos,  tragedy, 
humor.  Here  is  an  entrancing  style.  Here  is  a  new  field,  one 
full  of  passion  and  beauty.  Here  is  a  local  color,  with  strong  draw 
ing.  Here,  in  this  little  volume,  is  life,  breath,  and  blood.  The 
author  of  this  book  is  an  artist,  and  over  such  a  revelation  one  may 
be  permitted  strong  words," — Cincinnati  Times. 


NEWPORT. 

By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 
I  vol.,  I2mo.     Price,       ........        $1.25 

"This  is  undoubtedly  the  best  picture  of  Newport  life  that 
has  been  given,  not  only  for  its  characteristic  amusements, 
customs,  and  individualities,  but  also  its  mental,  moral,  and 
social  atmosphere." — Boston  Globe. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  er  sent^  postpaid,  upon  receipt  of  price  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


EDWARD  EGGLESTON'S  NOVELS. 


Mr.  Eggleston  is  one  of  the  very  few  American  novelists  who  hav 
succeeded  in  giving  to  their  works  a  genuine  savor  of  the  soil,  a  dis 
tinctively  American  character.  His  "RoXY,"  "  HOOSIER  SCHOOL 
MASTER,"  "CIRCUIT  RlDER,"  and  the  rest,  are  home-spun  and  native  ii 
all  their  features.  The  scene  of  the  stories  is  the  Western  Reserve,  ati< 
the  characters  are  typts  of  the  pioneers  in  the  territory  now  comprised  i> 
Indiana  and  Ohio. 

ROXY.     One  vol.,  I2mo,  cloth,  with  twelve  full-page  illustrations  fron 
original  designs  by  WALTER  SHIRLAW.     Price,  $1.50. 

"  One  of  the  ablest  of  recent  American  novels,  and  indeed  in  al 
recent  works  of  fiction/' — The  London  Spectator. 

THE    CIRCUIT    RIDER.     A    Tale    of  the    Heroic    Age.     On< 

vol.,  I2mo,  extra  cloth,  illustrated  with  over  thirty  characteristi< 
drawings  by  G.  G.  WHITE  and  SOL.  EYTINGE.     Price,  $1.50. 

"The  best  American  story,  and  the  most  thoroughly  American  OIK 
that  has  appeared  for  years." — Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER.    Illustrated.    I2mo.   Price 

$1.25. 

THE     MYSTERY     OF     METROPOLISVILLE.       Illustrated 
I2mo.     Price,  $1.50. 

THE    END    OF   THE   WORLD.     A   Love   Story.     Illustrated 
I2mo.     Price,  $1.50. 

COMPLETE  SETS  (IN  BOX)  $7.25. 

THE    HOOSIER    SCHOOL    BOY.     With  full-page  illustrations, 
I2mo.     Price,  $1.00. 

THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOL  BOY,  as  its  title  shows,  depicts  some  of  the 
characters  of  boy  life,  years  ago,  on  the  Ohio ;  characteristics,  how^ 
ever,  that  were  not  peculiar  to  that  section  only.  The  story  present; 
a  vivid  and  interesting  picture  of  the  difficulties  which  in  those  days 
beset  the  path  of  the  youth  aspiring  for  an  education. 


sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  b} 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,   Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND'S  POPULAR  NOVELS 


Each  one  volume,  16mo,  dotJi,  $1,25. 


"  To  those  -who  love  a  pure  diction,  a  healthful  tone,  and  thought  the 
leads  up  to  higher  and  better  aims,  tJiat  gives  brighter  color  to  som 
of  the  hard,  dull  phases  of  life,  that  awakens  the  mind  to  renewe 
activity,  and  makes  one  mentally  better,  the  prose  and  poetical  work 
of  Dr.  Holland  will  prove  an  ever  new,  ever  welcome  source  from  ivhic: 
to  draw." — NEW  HAVEN  PALLADIUM. 


NICHOLAS  MINTURN.     A  Study  in  a  Story. 

"Nicholas  Minturn  is  the  most  real  novel,  or  rather  life-storj 
yet  produced  by  any  American  writer." — Philadelphia  Press. 

SEVENOAKS.     A  Story  of  To-Day. 

"As  a  sfory,  it  is  thoroughly  readable  ;  the  action  is  rapid,  but  nc 
hurried;  there  is  no  flagging,  and  no  dullness." — Christian  Union 

ARTHUR  BONNICASTLE,     A  Story  of  American  Life. 

"  The  narrative  is  pervaded  by  a  fine  poetical  spirit  that  is  alive  t 
the  subtle  graces  of  character,  as  well  as  to  the  tender  influences  c 
natural  scenes.  .  .  .  Its  chief  merits  must  be  placed  in  its  graphi 
and  expressive  portraitures  of  character,  its  tenderness  and  delicac 
of  sentiment,  its  touches  of  heartfelt  pathos,  and  the  admirable  wis 
dom  and  soundness  of  its  ethical  suggestions." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

THE  BAY  PATH.     A  Tale  of  New  England  Colonial  Life. 

"A  conscientious  and  careful  historical  picture  of  early  New  Eng 
land  days,  and  will  well  repay  perusal." — Boston  Sat.  Eve.  Gazettt 

MISS  GILBERT'S  CAREER.     An  American  Story. 

The  life  and  incidents  are  taken  in  about  equal  proportions  fror 
the  city  and  country — the  commercial  metropolis  and  a  New  Hamp 
shire  village.  It  is  said  that  the  author  has  drawn  upon  his  ow 
early  experiences  and  history  for  a  large  part  of  the  narrative. 


sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  -upon  receipt  of  price, 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


RUDDER    GRANGE. 

By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


One  Volume,  16mo,  Paper,  GO  cents.    Cloth,  $1.25. 


"  The  charm  of  these  nearly  perfect  stories  lies  in  their  exquisite 
simplicity  and  most  tender  humor." — Philadelphia  Times. 

"  Humor  like  this  is  perennial." —  Washington  Post. 

"A  certain  humorous  seriousness  over  matters  that  are  not  serious 
surrounds  the  story,  even  in  its  most  indifferent  parts,  with  an  atmos 
phere,  an  aroma  of  very  quaint  and  delightful  humor." — N.  Y.  Even 
ing  Post. 

"The  odd  conceit  of  making  his  young  couple  try  their  hands  at 
house-keeping  first  in  an  old  canal  boat,  suggests  many  droll  situations, 
which  the  author  improves  with  a  frolicsome  humor  that  is  all  his 
own." — Worcester  Spy. 

"  There  is  in  these  chapters  a  rare  and  captivating  drollery. 
We  have  had  more  pleasure  in  reading  them  over  again  than  we  had 
when  they  first  appeared  in  the  magazine." — Congregationalist. 


SAXE   HOLJVTS  STORIES. 

These  stories  are  iinique  in  recent  liter  attire  for  tJieir  intensity ',  their 
fascination,  their  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  the 
marvelous  powers  of  description  which  they  display.  The  gems  ef  poetry 
scattered  throicgh  their  beautiful  and  subtile  fabric  constitute  one  of  their 
most  interesting  and  attractive  characteristics. 

FIRST  SERIES. 

"  Draxy  Miller's  Dowry,"  "  The  Elder's  Wife," 

44  Whose  Wife  Was  She  ?  "  "  The  One-Legged  Dancers." 

"  How  One  Woman  Kept  Her  Husband," 
"  Esther  Wynn's  Love  Letters." 

One  Vol.,  12mo,  Cloth,  -  $1.&G. 

SECOND    SERIES. 

"  The  Four-Leaved  Clover,"  "  My  Tourmaline," 

"Farmer  Bassett's  Romance,"          "Joe  Hale's  Red  Stockings," 
"  Susan  Lawton's  Escape." 

One  Vol.,  12mo,  Cloth,  -  $1.5O 

***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  pr^e,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,  Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


GUERNDALE. 

BY  J.  S.,  OF  DALE. 
One  Vol.,  12mo,  $1.25. 

u  GUERNDALE  will  at  once  take  rank  as  one  of  the  cleverest  and 
best  written  works  of  fiction  of  the  year." — Chicago  Tribune. 

ult  has  thought,  vigor  and  passion,  and  has  not  a  drowsy  page 
between  the  covers." — N.  Y.  Home  Journal. 

"After  endless  novels  of  culture,  here  is  a  novel  of  power;  after  a 
flood  of  social  analysis  and  portraiture,  here  is  a  story  of  genuine 
passion  and  of  very  considerable  insight  of  the  deeper  sort." — Christian 
Union. 

"  The  plot  of  the  story,  or  rather  of  the  romance,  for  no  other 
name  properly  describes  it,  is  full  of  delicacy  and  beauty.  .  .  The 
author  has  given  us  a  story  such  as  we  have  not  had  in  this  country 
since  the  time  of  Hawthorne." — Boston  Advertiser. 


CUPID,  M.D.    A  STORY. 

BY  AUGUSTUS  M.  SWIFT. 
One  Vol.,  12mo,  $1.00. 

"  It  is  an  extremely  simple  story,  with  a  great  and  moving  dramatic 
struggle  in  the  heart  of  it." — The  Independent. 

"  The  subject  is  delicately  as  well  as  effectively  handled,  with  a 
light  and  firm  touch,  a  certain  easy  grace  of  manner,  and  an  abund 
ance  of  interesting  pathological  detail." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


AN  HONORABLE  SURRENDER. 

BY  MARY  ADAMS. 
One  Vol.,  12mo,       -  $1.OO. 

"  The  story  belongs  distinctly  to  the  realistic  school  of  modern 
fiction.  The  situations  are  those  of  every  day.  The  characters  are 
not  in  the  least  eccentric;  the  dialogue  is  never  extravagant;  the 
descriptive  and  analytical  passages  are  neither  obtrusive  nor  too  pro 
lix.  The  sum  of  all  these  negations  is  a  charming  book,  full  of  a 
genuine  human  interest." — Portland  Weekly  Advertiser. 


* For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 
743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  BOOK  BUYER. 

A  Monthly  Summary  of  American  and 
Foreign  Literature. 


Annual  Subscription,  50    Cents. 


COMMKNTS    OF    THE    PRESS. 

"THE  BOOK  BUYER  is  a  most  readable  summary  of  American 
and  foreign  literature,  giving  besides  extracts  from  new 
books  suggestive  original  matter." — Fhila.  American. 

"  The  readings  from  new  books  are  happily  chosen,  the  London 
Notes  are  fresh  and  delightfully  chatty,  the  reviews  clev 
erly  done  and  without  bias,  and  the  editorial  discussion 
sound  and  vigorous.  To  those  who  wish  to  keep  up  with 
current  literature,  THE  BOOK  BUYER  must  prove  invalua 
ble." —  Washington  National  Tribune. 

"THE  BOOK  BUYER  is  an  honest,  diligent,  and  capable  ex 
positor  of  current  literature  at  a  low  price,  keeping  the 
reader  abreast  with  the  best  works  of  the  best  authors,  and 
supplying  an  interesting  miscellany  of  information  and 
criticism.  There  is  something  attractive  in  its  neatly 
printed  quarto  pages." — Literary  World. 


*#*  A  sample  copy  will  be  sent  on  application.     Subscriptions 
may  be  sent  through  local  booksellers  or  direct  to  the  ptiblishers, 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


JOHN  BULL  AND  HIS  ISLAND. 


One  volume,  12mo,  paper,  5O  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 


This  witty  and  incisive  book  on  England,  by  an  anonymous  French 
author,  is  the  sensation  of  the  moment  in  Paris,  London,  and  America. 
The  British  press  and  ptcblic  have  been  compelled  to  laugh  over  the 
admirable  cleverness  of  the  study,  even  while  they  protested ;  and  the 
fairer  critics  have  recognized  the  striking  truth  and  merit  of  the  more 
serious  criticism  "which  forms  no  insignificant  part  of  it. 


"Certainly  not  in  our  day  has  appeared  a  more  biting,  com 
prehensive,  and  clever  satire  than  this  anonymous  French  account 
of  England.  The  author  must  have  acquired  his  wonderful  famili 
arity  with  Great  Britain  by  a  long  and  observant  residence  within 
her  borders,  and  the  shrewdness  with  which  he  puts  his  ringer  upon 
the  weak  spots  of  the  English  character  is  little  short  of  marvelous. 
Either  because  he  is  shrewd  enough  to  understand  that  an  admixture 
of  praise  makes  more  effective  his  satire,  or — and  we  believe  the 
latter — from  genuine  admiration,  he  has  much  to  say  that  is  good  of 
both  people  and  island.  .  .  .  It  is  certainly  not  to  be  wondered 
that  the  volume  has  produced  a  profound  sensation  in  London ;  and 
it  will  undoubtedly  be  widely  read  in  this  country.  Enemies  of 
England  will  read  it  with  wicked  glee ;  her  friends  with  a  mixture  of 
pride  and  humiliation  ;  nobody,  we  apprehend,  with  indifference." — 
Boston  Advertiser. 


*  For  sa^e  ty  aM  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS,  Publishers, 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


A  NEW  NOVEL  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "GUERNDALE." 


HENRY  VANE 

BY  "J.  S.  OF  DALE." 


1   Volume,  12mo,    -     -     $1. 


"  Henry  Vane  "  is  a  study  of  American  life.  It  is  worth  while 
to  note,  in  the  midst  of  the  present  flood  of  literature 
dealing  with  the  inexhaustible  problem  of  the  American 
girl,  that  here  is  a  different  phase  of  the  American  girl 
from  any  that  is  familiar — a  more  serious  one,  if  not  one 
that  every  reader  will  be  willing  to  accept  as  true.  The 
story  is  told  with  the  vivid  and  strong  simplicity  that  has 
been  a  distinguishing  trait  of  the  author's  power  ;  and 
while  the  plot  contains  a  great  surprise,  none  of  the  force 
of  the  narrative  is  sacrificed  merely  to  this. 


*jt*  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


